


Earth 99

by elizabethdell



Series: The Adventures of Rathe [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arrowverse expansion, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Mystery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-01-26 22:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 89,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethdell/pseuds/elizabethdell
Summary: Rathe Adler is a half-alien, half-human superhero who has saved the world twice alongside Supergirl and the Legends. Or at least she thought so. Awakened from an apparent coma, Rathe emerges to find on this earth, her life and family are a source of constant attention and expectation. Slowly Rathe is drawn deeper into the dark underbelly that seeks change, but without a resident superhero, it may fall to her to decide who she is, and what kind of world she wants to live in.Final book on Rathe. See Beyond Words and Across Time for the Supergirl and Legends stories, respectively. This is an original work but imagined as an expansion of the Arrowverse. I'll try to post at least weekly.





	1. Waking

My name is Rathe Adler.

“Good.” The doctor scribbles some notes. I must be speaking aloud.

“And your parents?”

Rachel and Ethar Adler. Human and Empathia alien, respectively. He stares. Right. Not speaking this time. I repeat, making sure to limit my answer to the first part only. More scribbles.

“What do you remember from before the accident?”

I want to say I don’t remember an accident at all. I remember saving the world; diving into Vanishing Point of time thereby erasing myself from the world. My adopted, second world in which I was never born. In my first life I died in the more traditional sense, brought back via mystical artifacts on the condition I never return to that universe. As far as I can tell, this is now my third life. A third version of earth.

“Nothing,” I say. This is safer. I do not want to endure the barrage of tests and electrical shocks from yesterday. The doctor studies me, but I’m much better at this game than he. Such is the benefit of being half-Empathia. We make very good liars. Sometimes too good.

“Well,” he says finally. “Memory loss is not uncommon in this type of situation.”

What situation is that exactly? I’m still trying to figure it out. How did I get here? Where is here? And other than apparently being myself…who am I?

Yesterday I caught sight of myself in a mirror, the first good look I’ve had since waking up. Long brown hair, eyes a dull grey, thin, almost wasted figure. It’s not me. I shed my long hair years ago. My form, while lean, is also muscled from the years I spent working weekends in the vineyard and more recently my combat training. This pathetic creature wouldn’t last a minute in the ring. But again, this pathetic creature isn’t me. I didn’t spend ten years being fed through a tube, laying in a hospital bed. I don’t think anyway.

“Rathe?”

The voice interrupts my self-loathing.

“Hmm?”

“I said you should prepare yourself for discharge tomorrow. You appear to be stable, medically speaking, and there is nothing more we can do for you.”

“Ok.”

He looks at me with pitying eyes that I want to poke back into the sockets.

“Is there anyone you can think to call?”

Is he high? The only people I’ve named that seem to exist in this world are my parents. And the first thing I learned is that they both perished in the car accident that sent me into a ten-year coma.

“No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

I ignore his skepticism and stare out the window. Withered leaves of orange and brown rustle as the wind gusts. A week ago it was probably gorgeous. Vibrant fall colors in full plume. Now the leaves are brittle, curling around their core protectively to no avail. I shudder. How quickly things change.

*

The air is colder than it looks from the room. Bright sun doesn’t warm as much as I’d hope. They insist on escorting me out in a wheelchair, as if I’m some kind of invalid. Protocol they say. Yet once we pass the wide glass double doors I’m on my own. I can’t walk through the lobby alone but I’m supposed to navigate a world I don’t know, excuse me, don’t remember alone.

An orderly hands me a business card.

“I called around,” she says as her colleague folds up the wheelchair, pretending to not listen. “This is the detective that handled the accident. Your items are probably still in holding at the police station.”

“Detective?” I ask.

She nods, retreating with her nosy counterpart. I spin the card against my thumb and pointer finger. The corners pinch slightly as it turns. The wind blows again, surprisingly chilly. First things first. I need better clothes than the charity from the hospital.

Fortunately, the hospital resides downtown. People bustle about of all shapes and sizes. It’s cold enough that they walk quickly but not so cold as to dampen the spirits. I’m empty, void, but letting go is difficult. Slowly I release myself, reaching, opening to the new world. Energy flows around this city, so familiar but always different. Auras pink and blue and orange; yellow and purple. The smell of the ocean, crushed earth, moss, urine under the bridge, and polished marble. Hope and fears, joy, desperation, anxiety, irritation… It’s the same everywhere.

I feel more in control. I see the puzzle pieces come together, know which buttons to push, how to get what I need, from whomever I want.

I brush through the crowd and strangers pause to help, helpfully handing me cash. A young man carrying a leather jacket over his arm gives me the jacket. Much better. They can’t help it, although later they will wonder why they offered so much without a second thought. Consider it a perk of being empathic. Humans have so little knowledge of how much their emotions influence action. It makes it almost too easy.

I leave the charity clothes in the store dressing room and exit feeling more myself. A haircut later and I can almost pretend the past week in the hospital never happened. My hair, newly shortened, stands on end and I rake it, urging it to pomp the way I most enjoy.

“Great hair,” marvels the stylist. “It seemed so thin, how did you know it would stand like that?”

I grin at her through the reflection in the mirror. “Hunch,” I say.

It’s a good cut. I should pay but I don’t have much cash left. She pats my shoulder and even though I know what’s coming it still feels good.

“On me sweetheart,” she says. “Come back any time.”

“Thanks cutie,” I toss her a wink on my way out the door. It’s the small acts of kindness that help me feel better.

The autumn day has passed quickly and the sun is already on the descent when I arrive at the brick police station. These places make me nervous. I’m more aware than usual of my limited strength and the bustle of frantic, aggressive energy.

“Can I help you?” The officer at the front desk scowls.

“Um…” I fumble for the card. _Shit_. I can imagine it in the pocket of the discarded pants in the dressing room.

“Uh, I, um...” He taps his pen against the wood desk, looking down as if I’m a child. I shouldn’t feel unnerved, I’m definitely older than this kid, but his irritation seethes off his skin and makes mine crawl.

“The Adler car crash,” I say. “I just woke up from…”

His eyes widen in recognition. Good. I stop there.

“No way,” he says. He flips through a book, finger scanning a list. “Detective Parker. You’re in luck. She’s on duty.”

The radio crackles as he calls for assistance. He motions me to the side and the next person steps forward.

“Detective Parker,” a woman says sharply.

I jump. She steps back quickly with a frown, brushing a loose strand of light brown hair from her eyes. Hazel. They size me up with the efficiency of someone used to making snap judgements and being pretty good at it. Not as good as me, but decent.

“You had questions about the Adler case? That’s almost ten years old.”

I nod, throat suddenly dry, heart pounding. If there is really a detective it means the car accident actually happened, which isn’t possible. This has all been a bad dream. They can’t be dead, not both of them. I can’t be alone. The room dims and air thickens. My breath comes in choking gasps. I feel the stares of people in the lobby. A firm arm guides me away from the stares at my back. Not compassion so much as professionalism guiding her. She doesn’t want a scene. Army green and mustard yellow. She even tastes of mustard, vinegar and the barest hint of sweetness. All business. I brush my fingertips along the chair’s wooden armrest searching for a splinter, a rough edge, anything that will help me know I’m awake.

Detective Parker sets a small paper cup of water beside me. She clears her throat. The water cools in my gut and I get my wish. The moment is real. I want to go back to the haze.

“I’m Rathe Adler,” I say. Her brow furrows in confusion before she smiles condescendingly.

“Rathe Adler is at Port City General Hospital,” the detective responds. “Not walking around this precinct. Rathe Adler is brain dead and will never walk again.”

My mouth opens and closes.

“They never told me that.”

She half-laughs. It sounds like a bark.

“Who set you up? Daniels? It’s been awhile but I shouldn’t have assumed they’d forgotten.”

“The hospital,” I say. “Please. You can call them. They said some of my stuff might still be here…”

“Oh you’re serious?” she says in surprise. “They got the hospital to send me a crazy? That’s a new low. Even for Daniels.”

“Just…” I pick up the phone, the distant dial tone a centering focal point for the noise in the room. _Believe me_. She resists more than I expect, but her walls crumble as I focus on the reassuring single tone. Her grey-brown eyes scan for some sense of what just transpired. A flicker of recognition which she dismisses, covers with a tight smile. She shakes her head and dials.

The phone receiver clicks quickly as Detective Parker stares into the mid-distance. I heard enough from this half the conversation to know it went well. For me anyway.

“So you’re Rathe Adler,” she says.

“Now you’re getting it.”

Her serious expression furrows again. “I don’t understand,” she says. “They should have notified me you were awake.”

“Apparently it’s been ten years. I’m sure they thought you didn’t care.” Not quite the truth. I asked them not to tell anyone.

She snaps her head around sharply.

“It certainly doesn’t seem as if you do.” She stands and moves efficiently through the crowded room, I follow despite the lack of instructions. She rattles off a case number and the officer behind the netted screen passes a cardboard box through a slot.

“I suppose this technically belongs to you,” she says with an angry gesture. “Feel free to take whatever you want. I’ll toss the rest.”

The box is mostly empty. A book, spine broken to a point three-quarters of the way through, small splotch of blood on the corner. A jacket, more heavily covered in blood. I leave that in its plastic bag. Loose change, a quarter, three dimes, seven pennies. A dirty towel. Two wallets.

I open the first wallet carefully. The soft worn leather folds easily. My father grins from the center of the tri-fold. A few dollars, expired credit cards, some yellowing pocket photos I haven’t seen in years of my mother. A lump rises from my gut up towards my throat. The second wallet snaps open with comparable ease. It’s messier, old receipts, gum wrapper mixed in with bills and cards. The address on the driver’s license is the same. Rachel Adler smiles confidently at the camera. There is little sign of the shy, retiring woman that raised me.

Deep in the recesses I find a couple more photos, ones I’ve never seen. The first must be me. The child mugs for the camera with a bowler hat tipped down low, one hand on the hat and the other flaring to the side, fingers splayed. The second picture confounds me. A nearly identical-looking child stands, hands on hips, atop a large rock. In spite of a decidedly poorly-thought-out bowl-cut, the young child radiates good looks. I don’t think it’s me, the hair is a shade too light. It may even be a boy, although at that age, with that hair, it’s hard to tell.

I take the book and wallets, holding them uneasily in my arms. Detective Parker has vanished. Panic rises again.

“I’m done,” I tell the storage officer. He nods non-committally but accepts what remains in the box. I weave through the haphazard maze of desks and chairs until I spot Detective Parker hunched over her desk, deep in concentration.

“Hey,” I say.

She starts slightly. “Yes?” Implicit is the question of why I’m still here.

“First of all thanks…for this,” I say, lifting my arms to display the loot.

“It’s yours. No thanks needed.” She’s already leaning over again, writing more notes.

“Why was a car accident assigned a detective?”

“Excuse me?” she asks. The black name plate reads Det. Dana Parker. The name suits her. No-nonsense, and sharper than her male colleagues give her credit for. She shrugs, clearly not wanting to discuss.

“I was brand new to the force,” she says. “It was a good way to get the training wheels off.”

“And you kept following it because…?”

Dana stares straight ahead.

“I’d like the case file,” I say. “Since, you know, it was just an accident and you’re finished with your investigation.”

Her teeth grind slowly beneath clenched jaws.

“Parker!” snaps a voice. The detective stands quickly, chair sliding back.

“Sir!”

The captain gestures forcefully. Parker scoops up several manila folders, dumping them onto my already full arms.

“There,” she says. For a second I think she may soften, end our encounter on a friendly note, but the walls come down and like that she is made of stone again.

On the street outside I wrangle my new belongings. I need a place to stay. Focus on the essentials. Keep moving, don’t think too hard about this new world, about the loneliness.

A young man sprints up, shirt half-untucked, glasses slipping down his nose. He’s too gangly for someone his age, long limbs seeming to move of their own accord without coordination. With a long finger he pushes his dark-rimmed lenses up, leaving a sweaty smudge on the glass.

“Are you…Rathe…Adler?” He breathes heavily between words.

“Yes,” I say with surprise.

He drops to the ground in a crouch, still panting.

“I was afraid I’d missed you,” he says.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Right.” He stands and smiles, extending a hand and retracting it after noticing I have no hands to spare. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Gordon Gibson. I received a message to help you.” He splays his hands out. “Here I am.”

“Awesome,” I say. “Look Gordy, unless you can offer me a place to stay for the night and maybe some cash, I don’t need your help.”

His face falls. “Wait, like, not at all? But maybe I can… You can stay with me!”

“Gordy, get to the point man. It’s been a long day and my patience is gone. Whatcha got?” _And where did you come from?_

“Ok.” He takes a quick breath to center. His energy swirls around like a bee’s nest that has just been hit with a stick. It’s giving me a headache. I let my eyes flutter closed.

“First of all it’s Gordon. But, uh, I work in tech,” he explains. “This afternoon my computer went all wonky, lines of code and crazy symbols. I finally got the debug to work and it turned out the entire thing was a code. It referred to me – by name! – and said I needed to find you.”

“How did you find me?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of my impatience.

“Gideon said you would be here,” he said gesturing to the police station.

“Wait, Gideon?”

“Oh good you know him!”

“Her,” I correct. “Yeah. She’s a computer. Sort of.”

Gordy slaps his thigh. “That totally makes sense now. So are you coming? He…she...it promised more information.”

His dark eyes shimmer with enthusiasm. As if I have anywhere else to go.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

*

Gordy opens the door of his apartment with a flourish that suggests a pride he shouldn’t have in this hovel.

“Well this is…something,” I offer. Gordy beams.

“They don’t usually rent to Dryadalis,” he says. “But I have great credit.”

“Dryadalis?”

He glances at me from the fridge, flicking the edge of his ear from under high long hair, an unusual point protruding. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to mean.

“Yeah. So what’s your story? Your Gideon friend didn’t say much.” The fridge shuts with a sticky slurp.

I can’t suppress the sigh. There must be a reason Gideon choose this doofus, of all the people on this earth. It could just be to prove that my past life wasn’t imagined.

“Gordy –”

“Gordon,” he interrupts.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here, and hope that I can trust you, because…I don’t have anyone else.”

“Of course!” He sits beside me eagerly. It’s the first good look I’ve taken at him, and there’s something decidedly…different. The ears point noticeably at the top, although his are largely covered by long dark hair. Equally dark eyes occupy a larger than usual area of the eye. His long limbs match his delicate fingers which he wiggles in anticipation like a pianist about to begin a long piece.

“I’m from another earth,” I begin. “I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how I ended up in a hospital bed. I need to find a way back to my earth.” I lean forward, clasping his hand with extra-long digits. “I need you to help me.”

Gordy’s eyes open wide, dark irises obscuring the focal point of the pupil.

“Yes!” His aura darkens for a moment as a thought passes. “How?”

“Well for starters, I need to learn who I’m supposed to be. Who Rathe Adler is in this world.”

Gordy snaps his finger, pointing into the distance. “That I can do.” He opens a laptop, punching at the tiny keys more aggressively than strictly necessary. I can tell when he’s found something as his energy shifts in focus and intensity.

“Dude.” He spins the laptop around. “You’re going to want to read this.”

 

PORT CITY – Rathe Adler, the sole survivor of a single car crash in 2008, has awakened from a nearly ten-year coma, according to doctors at Port City General Hospital. She survives Ethar and Rachel Adler, prominent advocates for unification, who perished in the late-night crash. Investigators initially suspected foul play but later dropped the investigation, citing lack of evidence. Police had hoped to question Rathe Adler upon her waking, but when she was declared brain dead several years ago, doctors stated definitively that she would never awaken.

“It’s unprecedented,” stated one physician. “Other than memory loss, she awoke in perfect health. Science can’t explain it.” Hospital personnel confirmed that Ms. Adler left the hospital on her own this morning.

Port City police had no statement regarding the past investigation into the Adler family crash. At the time of the accident, Ethar and Rachel Adler were making waves with their push to unite all human subspecies under a single system of governance. In the wake of their untimely demise, now-Mayor Samantha Townsend stepped in and united _homo sapiens, homo dryadalis,_ and _homo neander_ under a system just as the Adlers envisioned. Notably, the faction with whom the Adlers aligned, _homo leporem,_ have been largely removed from society, deemed too much a risk by the other unified subspecies.

“Rathe Adler gave no indication as to her plans,” stated her primary physician, regarding her departure. “I expect after all she’s been through, she will want some time to readjust to society.”

The remaining member of the Adler family, Marcus Adler, was placed into state foster care following the death and incapacity of his family members in 2008. Since graduating from the system at the age of eighteen, Marcus hasn’t been seen or heard from.

“The Adlers aren’t _leporem_ , although they sympathized with their plight,” said the Mayor in a prepared statement. “We wish Ms. Adler a speedy recovery and welcome the return of one of our most politically active families to Port City.”

 

The text on the bright screen fuzzes into blurs, the characters switching places until the entire article appears to be written in a foreign language.

“What do you think?” asks Gordy. “Pretty exciting! You’re like a celebrity!”

“Right,” I say. The stench of mildew and old pizza boxes triggers my gag reflex. I run to the sink, heaving, unable to expel anything of substance. My brain pounds against my skull. There is too much to process in that short article, but two facts above all others stick out.

One, this is not a dream. In this world, my parents are dead, and I’ve been presumed dead until the past week. It’s the second fact that dominates my thoughts though.

Gordy stares at me, awaiting a reaction. Slowly I smile. In all this shit, the most unexpected of silver linings.

“Is that what you were looking for?” he asks tentatively.

“No,” I say. “But I know what I need to do now.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I’m going to find my brother. And then, we’ll figure out who killed our parents.”


	2. Stranger in a Strange Land

I clear a small space in front of the only window in Gordy’s apartment that gets sun. During the forty minutes each day in which the sun shines onto a spot on the drab carpet, I sit and meditate. I am searching for the only other being like me in the universe. The only one I know of in the multiverse, another half-human, half-Empathia.

The first day goes poorly. Gordy won’t stop staring and I can feel his dark eyes and long limbs from across the cramped and cluttered apartment.

“How is this helping?” he asks, twenty minutes in.

“You’re not,” I reply.

The second day he leaves “for coffee.” I want to tell him that lying to an Empathia is pointless but I’ve already lost two of the forty minutes. So I settle in, taking advantage of the time I have.

Auras and energy across Port City flood in, and for thirty-eight minutes I am connected to every emotion in the city. I observe and let each one pass. I don’t want to interfere unless I find the one I seek. But none match. They are all distinctly human, although apparently different human species. None bear the mark of Empathia emotional intelligence. Either my brother has left Port City, or learned to shield himself. I have to believe the latter.

Gordy stomps his feet outside the apartment after my meditation has passed, entering the apartment loudly. He lingers just outside the space I need, bouncing like a puppy hoping for attention. I pretend to mediate a few moments longer than necessary, hoping he’ll exhaust himself and move away.

“What do you want Gordy?”

“It’s Gordon. But, uh, well, I took the liberty of looking up the state’s info on Marcus Adler.” My head snaps around.

“Isn’t that information sealed?”

“Well…yeah. But it’s there. Just sitting. It’s not like I hurt anyone,” he adds, nervously tucking his long hair behind his shoulder.

Fair enough. Who am I to judge slightly-less-than-legal methods? I’ll bite.

“And I assume you found something of interest or you wouldn’t have brought this up.”

“Right-o.” Happily Gordy spins around, grabbing his laptop off the cluttered table and knocking over an errant bottle in the process. It tumbles harmlessly to the floor.

“Shoot. Well, here. This is what I wanted to show you. Marcus Adler’s last known location.”

The page details the families assigned to Marcus over his last twelve months in foster care. I cringe. An average stay of just under two months. Too many runaway attempts to count, the last one occurring three days before his eighteenth birthday. Apparently close enough to the finish that the case worker marked it as ‘emancipation.’

“This isn’t much.”

“We can talk to the family!” says Gordy. I arch an eyebrow.

“We? Don’t you have work or something?” This place may be a dump but he must pay for it somehow. Yet he’s always lingering around.

“Yeah, I work from home.” He shrugs. “My job is a joke. The stuff they ask me to do takes, like, thirty minutes tops to finish. I spend the rest of my time on more interesting matters.”

“Like hacking into government databases?” I ask.

“That’s the first time I’ve done that,” he says reflectively.

I grin.

“You’re alright Gordy.”

“Are you really gonna keep calling me that?” he asks.

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes.”

*

The Mendelson house lists aimlessly to the right, as if adopting an overly practiced casual lean. Siding, once a light color, possibly a pale yellow, now appears grey from repeat exposure to sun and rain. Moss grows in the substantial cracks that mark the walkway up to the front door. The metal grated bars complain loudly as I swing them aside to knock.

Low noises emanate from the interior, a cough, a discussion. The peephole turns from light to dark. I pretend to not notice the observation, doing my best to adopt a casual pose akin to the house. More discussion inside. Finally, the door swings open. A large woman, greying hair done into a sloppy pile, thin bathroom tied over a set of rumpled pajamas stares with a menacing air. She exhales a plume of smoke. The other half of the conversation appears to be her middle-aged son. He scowls and lumbers up the uneven steps out of view.

Gagging slightly in her smoke breath, I step aside. Gordy doesn’t seem to notice, only smiles pleasantly, peering past her into the house. I smack him lightly.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I say. “We’re here with the Port City Police Department and have a few questions about a child you fostered several years ago. May we come in?” I flash my father’s wallet confidently, flipping the trifold open to license and then closed again.

The woman blinks stupidly.

“Police?” she asks. “The police don’t hire Dryadalis.” She looks pointedly at Gordy who just smiles blankly past her.

“He’s a consultant,” I clarify. Psychically I exude desire to cooperate, the superiority of helping a hopeless future criminal. “We’re hoping you can help us track down a former charge of yours.”

Mrs. Mendelson studies Gordy suspiciously. Sheer force of will allows me to drag her attention from him back to the question at hand. She focuses suddenly, lowering her head with a dramatic sigh.

“You try so hard,” she says with a head shake. “But these kids, they just ain’t no good.”

“You’re giving them every chance to succeed,” I say. My aura, but not my voice, offers sympathy.

“But they just throw it all away,” she finishes.  Gordy continues studying the inside of the house. With a gentle shove, I push him past the large Mrs. Mendelson and he wanders inside, long legs dangling from his shorter torso, head moving slowly in an arc.

“What can you tell me about Marcus Adler?” I ask. Mrs. Mendelson is putty in my hands, attention fixed, not even acknowledging Gordy’s inspection. Nevertheless, the question triggers something. A wall goes up trying to deflect her gut reaction.

“Lots of kids pass through here Miss…”

“Detective Parker,” I say.

“Parker,” she finishes. “How am I supposed to remember any one of them?”

“Maybe because his parents were rather well known,” I respond, displaying the article on Gordy’s tablet.

“Mmm.” She wants to appear disinterested but curiosity wins out. It always does with humans. Subspecies differences be damned.

“What’s he up to?” she asks.

“That’s the question isn’t it?” I respond. “He left six years ago?”

She shuffles slightly, rustling her feet against the worn welcome mat.

“I suppose. I don’t keep track.”

“Tell me about him.” It’s an order, not a question.

“These kids, they’re all the same. He was always into this and that. We let him get away with a lot too, on account of his tragic family history.” She squirms slightly under the psychic pressure.

“We could have been nicer,” she concedes. “He left school too, when he aged out. Less than a month to go until graduation. Never even claimed his stuff.”

“Friends?”

“A job.” Discomfort and shame roll across her aura.

“You stole from him.” I let her feel every bit of my disgust. “Where was it?”

“I’ll go jot down the address.”

She waddles from the door as Gordy wanders back. He waves his phone.

“Got enough to shut this house down,” he says. “But no photos or other documents related to your brother.”

“Good. I’m not letting another foster kid in here.”

Mrs. Mendelson’s eyes are watery as she hands the slip of paper over. I avoid eye contact. She doesn’t deserve that forgiveness.

“Where to now?” Gordy bounces down the stairs. He peers over my shoulder at the address. “Oh sweet!”

“You know this place?”

He nods. “Best strip club in Port City. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a lot.”

Swell. My brother is a stripper.

“Oh man. What’s this place called?” A parade of tacky names marches through my head. The Banana Hammock. The South Pole. Junk in the Trunk. Lusty Lady Lounge. Thunder Down Under.

“Fancy,” says Gordy.

“Could be worse,” I say as I lean back in the passenger seat.

*

The nondescript building would be easy to miss if not for the bouncer conspicuously smoking out front. Idly he scans the street for potential customers, flicking the discarded butt into the gutter. But this early in the day, the alley that leads to the front of the club is mostly vacant. When Gordy parks, his is the sole vehicle on the street. The bouncer looks us up and down, a quick nod to Gordy as he pushes his long greasy hair back nervously. I get a more thorough inspection as if he’s trying to place me. The black faux velvet rope pulls back as he waves us in.

The odor of sweat, beer, and vomit hits as soon as the heavy curtain that blocks the light outside falls closed. On the low stage a single girl turns half-heartedly for an audience of half a dozen, none of whom appear to be paying much attention. The remaining handful of customers seem more lively but seated away from the stage at the bar.

I expect the bar should be able to direct us to a manager, or someone knowledgeable about the club’s past employees. A young, very attractive bartender ignores our approach, chatting up an even younger woman who leans over the bar, clearly appreciative of the attention. The bartender’s shirt fits too tightly, the contours of his chest visible underneath the black fabric which reads ‘Fancy (Under)Pants.’ He spins to demonstrate some flair bartending and the back reads simply ‘FU.’

“Classy,” I say to Gordy. In the dim light I think he blushes.

“Everyone just calls it Fancy,” he mumbles.

“Hey there hotshot.” I pound my hand against the bar and the bartender glares, finally making direct eye contact. Strange silver grey eyes mirror mine and for just a second I think I’m staring at my own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Abruptly he drops the bottle of liquor and bolts over the opposite end of the bar, jumping across the stage and through a concealed door. I knock into his flirting partner, tripping over a bar stool and nearly taking out the dancer on stage. The door seems to have vanished into the black wall. Effortlessly, Gordy slinks over and identifies the edge.

“Dryadalis vision is good in the dark,” he comments.

“Awesome,” I gasp, wrenching the hidden door open and plunging into the cluttered back of the house. The sound of rushing blood in my ears obscures all other noises. I try to slow down, to sense his presence instead of chasing. I make a mental note to start running. This body isn’t as strong as the one I’m used to.

His grey panic smells of the ashes of a fire left to burn out, a seething current of anger cold as the ocean, waiting to slip an unsuspecting boat away from the shore. Back alleys that stink of trash and smell of rain on the pavement, the damp chill when the rain soaks through a not-quite waterproof jacket.

The knife flicks faster than I expect. I taste the blood in my mouth, anticipation of the blade held against my neck. It pinches slightly, oddly warm against my throat. It can’t be a large blade, but a small cut is all it takes if properly administered.

“Calm down Marcus, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” he seethes. “What are you?”

“I’m your sister.”

He barks a bitter laugh.

“I don’t have one,” he says. “And even if I did, she never called me Marcus.”

“Fine, you got me,” I say. I kick my head back and slide a hand between my neck and his arm, grabbing and spinning. I may not be strong, but he is surprised and the knife twists easily from his hand. I shouldn’t have worried. The knife he held could barely open an envelope. I toss it aside.

He can’t help looking at me now and the effect is uncanny. His hair is lighter than mine, a dirty blonde bordering on brown, and he styles it with too much gel, but otherwise the way it falls naturally is the same. In his face I see the same petulant expression I know I wear when particularly irritated, but it’s the eyes that really catch me. Clear silver irises reflect the low light and contrast strikingly with the dark pupil. They move everywhere and nowhere all at once. He’s walled me off but it doesn’t take an empath to read the mix of fear and confusion on his face. It’s obvious he sees the similarity too.

“My sister always reminded me of chocolate and coconut,” he says. “That’s not you.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s hard to explain. Can we go somewhere else?”

The dancer walks off the stage a few feet away, topless and with an embarrassing excuse for a thong on bottom. I feel color creeping up my neck as Marcus easily observes the effect it has on me.

“No,” he says. “This is my home. I know these people. I don’t know you.”

Fair enough. At least he’s not stupid.

“My name is Rathe,” I say. “Rathe Adler, just like your sister. But where I come from, on my earth, I’m an only child.”

“Wait what? You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“The world is a lot more complicated than you know. Trust me. The multiverse is basically like a series of infinite parallel universes. And each one…”

“…is a little bit different,” finishes Marcus. “So, I just, don’t exist in your earth at all?”

“Hey, to be fair, I didn’t exist on the last earth I was on.”

“And how many parallel earths have you been to?” he asks with a scoff.

“This is the third. But that’s not the point. The point is, somehow I made it here. I learned I had a brother and the first thing I wanted to do was find you.”

Marcus smirks, opening his arms wide.

“Well congratulations,” he says sarcastically. “You found me! Are we done?” He turns to walk away.

“Hey! Get back here!” I yell.

“Why?”

“I’m getting you out of here. This isn’t a life.”

Marcus walks with deliberate slowness up to me, silver eyes right at my level.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says softly. “You don’t get to show up and pretend to be my sister. My sister is dead. I don’t care what you call yourself or how you got here. You’re nothing more than a stranger.”

I don’t call this time when he walks away. He’s right. I shouldn’t have expected some kind of happy reunion. My parents are dead and I’ve never had a brother. Marcus Adler is just as much a stranger to me as I am to him.

“Now what?” asks Gordy.

Other than hapless Gordy, who for some reason continues to follow me around, I have no one. I am no one. I sigh.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to drink.”

*

Fancy heats up considerably as the night wears on. I stay away from the bar attended to by Marcus, drowning my nameless sorrows in glass after glass of cheap whiskey on the other side of the club. I want it burn. Maybe if it’s harsh enough it will consume me from the inside, leaving nothing, a fitting end seeing as I don’t even have my own body anymore.

Gordy heads into a smoke room in the back and returns later smelling of pot and astonishingly even more laid-back than usual. He drapes his body over an oversized stuffed chair, possibly asleep, possibly watching bugs in the rafters. It’s difficult to tell and I’m not looking too hard anywhere except the bottom of the glass.

Someone trips over Gordy’s splayed leg.

“Watch it!” the gruff man spits. Gordy raises a stoned head. Not asleep after all. The man’s posture shifts from merely irritated to aggressive.

“Lazy Dryadalis,” he says, spittle dotting the edges of his red beard. “Should’ve guessed.”

“Hey man.” Even I can tell I’m slurring. The room spins a bit past the bearded guest before returning to his red face. I pat him on the shoulder. “No harm no foul.” _Chill_. _Let’s move on._

His countenance relaxes briefly and then stiffens. He stares at the spot I touched.

“Leporem,” he says with a guttural growl. “This place has Leporem!”

“Whoa,” says Gordy, eyes wide as he stares at the man. “Your chin is on fire…”

A short stocky bouncer with a prominent brow and dressed all in black locks an arm around Big Red’s throat. Red’s eyes bulge then close as he goes down peacefully.

“Nothing to see,” says the bouncer, propping the man up with impressive ease. “Everyone have a good time.”

I raise my glass. It’s empty.

“Another.” What a funny word. “Another, another, another,” I say, letting the syllables roll around my tongue.

The bartender, this one a pretty young woman whose name tag says ‘Glitter’ slides over a glass of water.

“You know, if you are Leporum, the boss is always looking,” she says in a low voice. “Kind of an open secret. Regardless you’re welcome here.” She winks and I reach for her arm.

“Can I ask you a question?” I whisper. Her expression tells me my whispering probably wasn’t too quiet.

“What’s Leporem?”

“Um.” She appears thrown by the question, wiping a spot on the counter she’s already cleaned. “Uh, people, like Sapiens. _Homo leporum_. They look like Sapiens. But they’re charmers. I assumed you…” she gestures towards the sight of the altercation.

I snort. “I’m flattered,” I say. “But no one thinks I’m charming.”

“Well that’s the thing,” she responds wryly. “They’re often not.”

She eyes me a second longer and slides a second glass of water over.

I chug both glasses. Despite the high energy of the room I feel deflated. Sobering up is the worst. I shuffle off the barstool and tug on Gordy’s limp arm.

“Com’on buddy. Time to go.”

“But I was about to get the pink pony…” he complains.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

I’m feeling the whiskey now and want to leave. Gordy whines.

“Five minutes,” I say. I shove him over, curling onto part of the oversized chair. He condenses his long limbs wrapping me in a human variant blanket. Even the catcalls and drunken conversations can’t keep me from falling asleep.

The scream pierces my dream, shattering the relatively happy memory. My mouth feels like something died inside and my stomach growls. Gordy’s bloodshot eyes open reluctantly.

Fancy is still crowded, but clearly past its peak. The clientele move uncertainly, swaying as a collective.

“What happened?” I ask. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. Glitter stares from the behind the bar, painted nail pointing past me. Clients have formed a space around the front of the stage. I push my way forward with a sense of dread.

The bearded man that insulted Gordy earlier lays on his stomach, a pool of red that appears almost black under the neon forming around his gut. I’m thankful for the water Glitter provided earlier as several other customers heave at the sight, but my stomach remains calm.

“Everyone move back,” I say. My voice manages to carry far more authority than I feel. “Has anyone called the police?”

Abruptly a dozen cell phones dot the crowd.

“Just one…would be fine,” I say.

Whatever. I crouch near the body. No pulse, no breath. Still warm. One hand clutches the stomach underneath the body, but the other lays to the side. No markings, nothing readily visible beneath the fingernails.

“Everybody freeze! Stay where you are! This club is on lockdown!”

I’m still crouched beside the body, conspicuous as everyone else has stepped away. I stand slowly, hands in the air.

Detective Parker, flanked on either side by uniformed cops, grimaces. She approaches me, weapon steady.

“I was just taking a look,” I explain.

“Right,” she says, holstering her weapon only when she’s close enough to grab my wrist and cuff my arms behind me. “Because if you learned anything while being brain dead for ten years, I’m sure it was criminal forensics.”

I grunt as she presses me harder than necessary against the stage. The cuff cuts into my left hand.

“You’d be surprised,” I manage. “For instance I can tell you based on body temperature and rigor mortis that this man has been dead for approximately fifteen minutes. There was no struggle. I haven’t turned the body over but I suspect something was planted on him that caused a slow death. If I had to speculate it would be an item of cloth–”

Detective Parker yanks the cuffs, spinning me around.

“This is sounding an awful lot like a confession,” she says.

“It sounds like I’m trying to help you out,” I correct. “This man is also a raging Sapiens supremacist based on his reaction to various club patrons, so I imagine he wasn’t too popular here.”

Detective Parker’s eyes dart around quickly, taking in the remaining customers and staff.

“Regardless, you know I’ll need an alibi,” she says, confidence waning slightly.

“I was asleep right there until someone screamed,” I say. “Ask Glitter. The bartender. She can vouch for me.”

“Stay here.”

Parker strides across the club to the bar where Glitter is huddled, crying lightly. As the detective approaches I see their mouths moving in conversation. Question and answer. Question again. Glitter glances in my direction and nods, hands moving in small circles near her chest. Detective Parker’s body language reveals nothing. In spite of myself I’m impressed with her control. She returns with the same purposeful but unhurried stride, smoothly uncuffing my hands. I rub the left wrist.

“Told you,” I say.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” she warns. “Everyone here needs to stay until they’ve given their statement to an officer.”

“You’re the boss, applesauce.” I’m rewarded with the most withering glare I’ve ever received. I grin. _Worth it_.

“Detective Parker!” An officer waves from across the club. “We found something you’re going to want to see.”

Parker glares at me one final time. She ducks with the officer behind Marcus’s bar. I spot Marcus, standing nervously to the side. Detective Parker stands quickly, and as efficiently as she cuffed me, she spins Marcus and metal locks into place behind his back. Without thinking I dash over.

“Marc Ferrari, I am hereby placing you under arrest for the crime of Sapiens murder. Because of the seriousness of this crime, you shall be confined until your trial. You are not authorized to obtain council. Public notice shall be provided and all wishing to present on your behalf may speak then. Do you accept the charges or wish to contest?”

“I accept,” Marcus mumbles.

“What? No!” I cry.

“What are you doing?” Gordy whispers harshly.

Detective Parker’s eyes narrow.

“Does this person speak on your behalf?” she asks.

“No,” says Marcus rolling his eyes. “I’ve never even met her. I accept the charges.”

“Very well,” she says.

With a flick of her head, the officers drag Marcus Adler from Fancy, customers and staff alike staring in disbelief. From behind the bar, Detective Parker lifts a short knife, I recognize it from the one he held to my throat earlier today, only now its coated in blood, beginning to congeal around the handle. She drops the blunt instrument into a clear bag, sealing it with precision. I cut off Detective Parker’s exit.

“You know he didn’t do it,” I say. “He was working here all night, he has an alibi. And how could he have gutted a giant man like that without creating a ruckus? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You can speak at his hearing,” says Detective Parker. “And until then, some free advice. If I were you, I’d try to stay out of trouble.”

She brushes past me roughly. Mustard of yellow grey with a hint of sour, a sharp crispness of green beneath like summer leaves. Conviction melds with uncertainty.

“You’re an interesting study,” I say.

“Funny. I don’t feel at all the same about you.”

“Ha. Charming too.”

The detective turns, scowl on her face making her appear older than she is.

“I’m serious Ms. Adler. In this town, your name is a liability. I recommend you keep your head down and stay away from troublemakers like Marc Ferrari.”

She exits into the cool dark alley. I follow, holding the heavy curtain that divides the club and street against my shoulder.

Marcus looks back at me, just once, before the officer places a hand on his head and he vanishes into the nondescript vehicle.

“Tough break Ray-ray,” says Gordy.

“Don’t call me that,” I say sharply.

“Rathe,” he corrects quickly.

The lights on the car brighten and retreat down the street and out of sight. I feel the anger building inside.

“How do you feel about hacking into the Port City Police Department?” I ask.

Gordy blinks languidly at the empty street. The corner of his mouth slides over as he thinks.

“Pretty ok,” he says.


	3. Silver Lining

Gordy crashes as soon as we get back to the apartment but I’m too wound up to sleep. The shock of seeing my sort-of-brother escorted away in cuffs has finished the job of sobering me up. While Gordy snores, I scour the web for any and everything on this earth’s criminal justice system. It’s not pretty.

The law divides crimes based upon the status of the victim. Specifically, ‘high crimes’ are those against registered Sapiens. Unregistereds, which is a nice way of saying all the non-Sapiens, warrant only a ‘moderate’ to ‘simple’ classifier. In all instances of high crime, the accused must represent themselves, as for an attorney to take up such a position would compromise their oath to the law. I find only a few cases of high crime reversed. In most instances, the accused have no one to speak for them at the hearing. What a load of crud.

Stranger or not, I’m not going to let the only connection I have to a family here go to prison. Gordy snores, turning over loudly on the couch. It’s almost six a.m. I grab my jacket and head for the door. Before leaving I scribble a quick note for Gordy.

_Tracking down a lead. Found out who Marc Ferrari is._

Besides a ridiculous alias.

At the police station I duck into the stairwell right next to the entrance. The morgue is always down, and that at least seems to be consistent on this earth. A row of examination tables lay awaiting inspection, four shapeless forms, death neatly masked by the clean white sheet atop. I peer at each until I find the mop of ginger hair. Steeling my nerves I pull back the sheet.

“Hey!” I nearly jump out of my skin at the high-pitched voice.

The morgue attendant, a petite woman with large glasses, olive skin, and long, straight black hair pulled into a low ponytail crosses her arms in a manner more protective than upset.

“No one is supposed to be down here,” she admonishes, walking over quickly and replacing the cover as if apologizing to the victim for the confusion.

“My mistake, they should have told you I was coming.” I prepare to pull out the wallet but she raises a trembling hand, pointing towards the exit.

“You need to go.” The effort this order takes from her is palpable. I don’t have the energy to fight.

Inexplicably I burst into tears. I probably should have gone for a second nap like Gordy. The anger, rejection, confusion at this new world has reached the breaking point. The attendant appears stunned.

“I, um, you can stay for a bit,” she says. “I just can’t have you touching the bodies. That’s my job.” She tries for a light smile that lands somewhere between menacing and bored. She retreats back towards the resting corpses. Her desire for me to be gone is overwhelming. I pull myself together as gracefully as I can.

I feel defeated. Drained.

“I’m sorry, you’re right.” I turn to go. At least I still have Gordy. A wave of relief washes through me. For all his doofiness he’s a nice guy. Loyal despite having no reason to be.

“Hey!” she calls. I sense her surprise with herself. “What were you doing down here anyway?”

_What am I doing?_ I’m no longer sure.

“Trying to help a friend. Well, he doesn’t want to be my friend. So it doesn’t matter anyway.”

She bites the lower corner of her lip.

“This guy?” she asks, gesturing to the disheveled white sheet covering Big Red. I nod.

“Incident last night. He’s been arrested.”

Her resistance weakens, but a core of fear remains. Not fear of reprisal, but an innate, immovable kind of fear. Something that defines her very essence. Her throat bobs several times.

“Come back in an hour,” she says. “Stay…over there. I’ll leave a copy of the results for you.”

“Really?” No empathing, no lies? My curiosity perks but she scuttles back.

“You’re a good friend,” she says, voice hesitant. This encounter has already gone on much too long for her comfort. “Now…please go.”

“Thank you,” I say. My vision blurs but I move forward anyway, wiping the tears roughly across my cheeks. An hour isn’t enough time to make it back for a nap, but I can at least grab some tea.

*

The tea helps immensely. I inhale the warm vapor of bergamot, curling my body around the steaming cup for warmth. The piano music the coffeehouse plays is a bit too loud, but otherwise the atmosphere isn’t bad. I sip slowly and wait until exactly one hour to return across the street.

The precinct lobby bustles with uniformed and plainclothes police, members of the public, and surly individuals being escorted in for one reason or another. I avoid the ruckus entirely, heading down the stairs. Just as promised a thin manila envelope lays on the bottommost stair. I linger, two steps from the morgue floor, unsure if I should say anything or let the strange attendant be.

“Thank you!” I call. No response. I think I feel a searching, wondering aura, but with all the bodies it’s difficult to tell if it’s any more than my imagination.

Back at the coffeehouse I sit down with a second large tea and open the envelope. A few simply typed pages with black and white photos fill the inside. The initial results closely mirror my own observations, with the notable difference that she was able to study the hand that had been clutching the stomach. But still, neither hand showed signs of a fight or any defensive wounds.

The tox report also contains little of interest. Big Red had recently consumed alcohol. Hardly a shock given the location of his death. The analysis of the wound itself is what I want.

A single stab-like wound, administered just below the navel. Size unfortunately consistent with that blunt excuse for a knife Marcus totes around. But the attendant noted something unusual about the wound. Instead of a clean insertion the wounds included substantial bruising in the immediate vicinity. In roundabout language she spells out what I’d suspected. Something more subtle than a traditional stabbing.

Specifically, “the pattern of abrasion suggests the slow rather than fast insertion of the weapon into the abdomen. Slow enough that due to the victim’s level of intoxication and girth, the victim may not have even been aware of the damage inflicted until internal bleeding had already progressed to a lethal stage…”

On the final page is everything I need. A photograph and evidence number. The report is signed Kathryn Li, Medical Examiner.

It’s nearing nine o’clock so I drain the bottom of the cup and head back. Gordy is up and humming at the computer when I return, looking surprisingly alert given our late evening. He points to my note.

“Marc Ferrari?” he asks.

“That’s what the detective called Marcus,” I respond. “What did you find?”

“Well, Marc Ferrari appeared about four months after Marcus Adler disappeared,” he said. “I’m sure purely by coincidence.”

“Right.”

“Same birthday if you tack on two more years, different past. Unregistered. It’s really an impressive false identification. He’s even got fake parents with false bank accounts. Empty of course.”

Gordy clicks a few more keys on the computer.

“Marc Ferrari is an aspiring actor/actor according to public records. Makes next to nothing with the exception of a few years ago when he booked an ad for life insurance that took off briefly. Addresses change regularly every twelve months, no discernable pattern, all appear to be fake. Nothing mentions Fancy so I’m guessing he’s been working under the table there since he ran away.”

“Can you trace who set any of this up?” I ask. “The fake bank accounts and social media profiles?”

Gordy frowns.

“It’s like you have no faith in me at all,” he complains. “You know I was the only one to solve that interdimensional message from your friend!”

“You’re the best Gordy,” I call as I leave the room. I need a quick nap.

I awake to Gordy’s unblinking dark eyes and long dark hair watching me.

“You’re up,” he says in a normal tone.

“Yeah. And watching people sleep is weird. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

He shrugs, large eyes wandering slowly around the room. “You sleep funny,” he says. “Bad dreams?”

Actually yes. But I don’t want to talk about that. Not with Gordy. Not with anyone.

“It’s just the hangover,” I say. “Did you track it down?”

“Yeah. It took some impressive backtrack work but I am the best,” he says.

“You’re amazing Gordy.”

He beams at the fished-for compliment.

“One guess where everything originated,” he says.

I close my eyes briefly. Of course.

In the morning light, Fancy’s exterior appears even more drab and depressing. There is no bouncer out front and apparently no one thinks a strip club is going to be robbed mid-morning so we walk straight in. The club smells strongly of cleaning solution. No doubt the staff were up till early trying to get the blood and vomit out of the carpet. I cover my nose with the color of my shirt, not wanting to breath in the fumes. Nonetheless, I can’t help moving closer to the scene, trying to make out the edges of the bloodstain.

“Can I help you?”

A middle-aged slightly balding man watches with interest. No fear, no concern. Neutrally guarded. In the shadows I sense the presence of other watching. A tight-knit crew this one. No wonder he’s not afraid. I’m outnumbered. Subterfuge could backfire horribly so I decide to try something new.

“I really need to speak to a manager, the owner,” I say. “I’m trying to help Marcus…Marc Ferrari. It doesn’t make any sense, but I’m connected to him.”

The man smiles indulgently.

“Sweetheart, you’re hardly the first one to come in here thinking you and Marc have some kind of ‘special’ connection.”

“Ew. Nothing like that.” He appears surprised but waits. I shake my head. My heart pounds in my chest. I feel Gordy’s anxiety rising. He doesn’t trust them. I don’t either. How could I? I’ve only ever trusted four people in my life, and none of them exist on this earth. But this is the family my brother chose. If I am ever to be his family, I need to trust them too.

“First I need you to know that I am not crazy,” I say quietly. I don’t need everyone to overhear this. “I’m his sister. I know – I’ve been in a coma,” I say, cutting him off before he can interrupt. I talk faster, a bit louder, trying to get it all out while I can.

“I know that I’ve been considered brain dead. I can’t explain it. All I know is that a week ago I woke up. I don’t remember much of anything from before. But I learned I had a brother and I found him, and even though he doesn’t believe me, I’m hoping you will, because all I’m trying to do right now is save him from going to prison for something he didn’t do.”

His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

“I’m the owner,” he croaks out. He extends a hand, tentatively patting me on the back. “Let’s talk in the back, shall we?”

“Gordy, stay here,” I say, a bit more sharply than I need to. The owner nods and a girl steps out of the shadows to sit with Gordy.

The door shuts firmly behind me and instantly the owner’s demeanor changes from blandly neutral to fiercely protective. I touch his arm and calm him.

“What do you see?” he asks.

“You’re red and orange, coffee beans and nylon stockings. An old shag rug.”

He breathes shakily, gesturing to the chair.

“I must be an idiot to believe you,” he says. “But Marc is the only other person who talks like that. Granted it’s rare. But still.” He squints. “Anyone every tell you that you two are the spitting image of each other,” he adds. “The eyes. I mean…it’s uncanny.”

“No one,” I say truthfully. I can’t help smiling.

“Something funny?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just so relieved you believe me.”

He signs heavily, rubbing his temple.

“That kid will be the death of me. I always said it.”

I lean forward. “Can you tell me how you met?”

“Sure. Caught a scrawny teenager sneaking in one night. I brought him back here and gave him a talking to.” He waves his hand. “In this light I saw his torn up clothes and shoes with holes in ‘em. I asked if he wanted to make some money. He’s been working for me ever since.”

“And living here?”

“Most of my staff do.”

“Mister…”

“Call me Billy.”

“Billy, does Marc have any enemies?”

Billy laughs. “Nah. You’re a… What’s it called? Empath thing. Hell it’s better than the one trick Leporem got. No one dislikes Marc. Sometimes the ladies go a little crazy over him, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.”

“What about that other guy? The one that died last night. Do you know him?”

Billy frowns. “Not particularly. Seen him around before, but he’s not a regular. We try to keep this place friendly for all types. His kind are bad for business.”

“The cops must not like this place much.”

“You’re a sharp one.”

I stand. Billy stands also.

“I got what I need,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” He’s returned to his practiced neutrality but doubt seeps in. I don’t want to get his hopes up though.

Gordy jumps up as soon as I reappear in the lobby. He waves his phone.

“The hearing just posted,” he says. I glance at Billy.

“Want to come?” Billy nods tightly. “Great. Gordy, I need you to look something up on the way.”

*

The hearing room is sparsely populated. Marc sits to the sit with the others up for hearing. The judge files through the names quickly and each of the accused stands in turn to acknowledge their presence and charges. It’s difficult to ignore the presence of several lanky, large-eyed Dryadalis in the accused box as well as the short stockier type I assume must be Neander. Only a few appear to be Sapiens or Sapiens-like. I suspect all are unregistered, a suspicion quickly confirmed as the charges are read. A small clump of police sit in the back, talking quietly. Detective Parker enters during the reading and takes a seat away from her colleagues.

The process is remarkably simple. The accused steps forward while the arresting officer recites their notes. Then testimony is opened. In most cases no one speaks. Occasionally the accused offer a statement, a plea for mercy, or final claim of innocence. In every case, the accused is found guilty.

“Marc Ferrari!” called the judge. She bangs the gavel sharply. These cases mean nothing. I’m struck by the roteness of it all. I’ve seen more process around dealing with a parking ticket.

Detective Parker moves around the courtroom to the stand. Her eye catches mine and I note her surprise. Good. I scan the crowd for the other officers present. The two that cuffed Marcus chatter in the corner. Parker delivers her statement in a brisk, efficient tone. The bloodied knife is presented into evidence and the judge calls for additional testimony.

I stand and ignore the twitters from the small crowd. The judge purses her lips with an expression of annoyance. I’m slowing this down. I move up to the stand with a deliberate pace. Marcus waves his arms but I ignore him. His face is filled with fear. He reeks of it. This whole room reeks of it.

“Please state your name and arguments on behalf of or against the accused,” recites the judge in a monotone.

“I’d like to question the two officers that identified the murder weapon,” I say. The judge peers down her nose and waves the officers forward. _Let’s keep this moving._ More twitters from the audience. I hold the bag containing the bloodied knife.

“Was this the weapon you recovered?” I ask.

“Yes. Off the suspect,” says Officer 1. Officer 2 nods in agreement.

“Outstanding. Is any piece of this knife missing?”

The officers exchange confused glances. “Did anything snap off inside the victim?”

“No,” says Officer 2. “That’s the whole thing.”

I pull the medical examiner’s report, pointing to the paragraph of note.

“Please read the following.”

The officer rolls his eyes at the judge. She merely gestures him to continue, her bored façade beginning to shift to interest. When he arrives at the portion detailing the metal sliver embedded in the body he pauses.

“Where did you get this?” he asks hotly.

“Officers would you mind displaying the contents of your pockets?”

Officer 2 scowls darkly. Officer 1 appears irritated but turns out his pockets as requested. Some loose change and handwritten notes fall out.

“Officer?” asks the judge warningly. Slowly Officer 2 turns his out. He tries to palm the ball of wire, but is clumsy, and even the judge spots his attempted sleight of hand.

The gavel bangs.

“I’ve seen enough to acknowledge there is substantial doubt as to the validity of the charges,” says the judge. “I am suspending this case pending further investigation, to include the possibility that one or more officers may be involved.” Another bang. She reverts immediately into efficiency mode, calling the next name and charges for disposition.

Marcus stares unbelievingly as the guard uncuffs him. He moves forward, past me and embraces Billy. With an unreadable look, he exits. I can’t help but feel somewhat affronted. No thank you? Detective Parker’s seat in the back row is vacant. I march out of the courtroom. Marcus and Billy are visible down the hall. A few quick steps is all it takes to catch them.

“Hey,” I say. “Seriously, nothing?” It’s petty, I know.

Marcus turns slowly and although I can feel the seething rage I have no idea how deep it runs until he begins speaking.

“You left me!” Marcus says. “You have no idea what I went through. Ten years, completely alone, and you expect me to feel bad for you, alone for one week? Do you know what it was like? Shuttled around to a dozen different families every year, no one knowing what I was.”

“It’s not like I chose to not be here,” I respond hotly. My own temper flares and rises all too quickly, heating the surface of my skin until we are two broiling suns. He’s walled off, guarded, but I see the rolling colors of emotion washing across his skin in powerful waves. I want to lash out. My time on other earths and training with other psychic aliens has given me a control I know he doesn’t have. It would be so easy…

I take a deep breath and let my walls down. His eyes widen as I share the energy I hold, grant him access to every awful and wonderful emotion I’ve ever felt. I feel his guard drop as well and for the first time since my father died on the earth in which I was born, I am not lost.

Marcus steps away, clearing his throat, anger evaporating as sure as the morning mist once the sun breaks through.

“Maybe you could come by sometime,” he says. His throat bobs and he blinks quickly. “We can get to know each other.”

“I’d like that.”

Billy nods, the seed of a smile evident in his cheek. “You know where,” he says.

“Yeah.”

They exit the courthouse into the gray drizzle but the warm connection to my brother remains strong. I hear his heart beat proudly, feel the joy of an unexpected encounter, the ennui of the return to routine, and a hope for more in the future. He reminds me of warm milk with almond on a wet chilly day, the peek of the sun through the clouds, shining against the silver lining.

“Hey.” Gordy twists his hands, long fingers weaving in and around each other. “So, I hope you’re not mad but I mentioned to a buddy how we tracked down your brother and got him off from arrest.”

Gordy appears nervous. Not sweating, but looking as if he’d like to be.

“Alright,” I prompt.

Gordy clears his throat. “The thing is, this guy, he’s a good guy too…His sister’s been missing for over a year now.”

“Take it to the police.”

“Right,” says Gordy. “I keep forgetting you’re new here. See, the police don’t care much about Dryadalis. We look out for our own. Neander have it a bit easier, but honestly, unless you’re Sapiens…” He shrugged helplessly.

“You want me to go to the police?” I ask. The laugh burbles up as I recall Detective Parker’s dismissive attitude towards me.

“You realize I’m not Sapiens either.” Although I suppose on this earth I pass for one, seeing as aliens are unheard of and I bear none of the distinctive physical characteristics of Neander or Dryadalis.

“Actually I was thinking you could probably solve it,” Gordy says. “With my assistance of course. You’re clearly shit on the computer. But we could use someone like you. Someone who listens and doesn’t care what subspecies of human you are. Plus,” he adds, “at some point I am going to ask you to chip in for rent.”

I grin. Good luck. I’ve never paid rent in my life.

“We’ll see,” I say. “My services don’t come cheap.”

Gordy grins. “That’s what I told him.”


	4. Family

Gordy’s long lashes blink nervously, hands twisting around each other like a rolling ball of yarn.

“I’m not upset,” I tell him for what must be the fifth or sixth time.

“You’re sure it’s ok?” he asks. “I can tell him we aren’t interested…”

“It’s fine.”

In truth I’m happy for the distraction. Since clearing Marcus’s name I’ve had to lay low. We’ve talked on the phone but Billy mentioned an increased police presence coming by Fancy in recent days. I figure now may be the best time to follow Detective Parker’s advice and stay off the radar. But my mind whirs with boredom. I can’t sleep at night what with all the thoughts of missed opportunities.

The knock at the door startles Gordy and he jumps. Three lanky strides are all it takes for him to reach the threshold. The visitor grins at Gordy, equally tall but somehow appearing more proportionate overall. His height and long limbs seem to fit his body, but his eyes retain the same oversized pupils by which I’ve learned to identify Dryadalis. Not to mention the distinctive point on the tip of the ear.

“You must be Rathe Adler,” says the Dryadalis with a touch of wonder. “It’s an honor. My name is Hironimus.”

“Rathe,” I respond, realizing too late that I’m only repeating what he’s said. “Um, Gordy said you had an issue. A disappearance.”

Hironimus’s smile dims a fraction, a cloud passing over his perpetual sunniness. He glances at Gordy and Gordy nods. _You can trust her_.

“Are you Leporem?” Hironimus asks suddenly. Gordy’s eyes widen, a combination of surprise and mortification.

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

I shrug indifferently. “No.”

He releases a breath, almost disappointed. “Everyone thought the Adlers must be,” he says. “But you’re just Sapiens.”

“Wrong again.”

Hironimus’s eyes bunch together, a particularly funny sight for the long-faced Dryadalis, but I repress the urge to laugh.

“Why does it matter?” I ask. My patience is wearing thin.

“Because this could get me into a lot of trouble. And I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Dude…” says Gordy in a pleading voice. “Not cool.”

“Look buddy, I’m here to try and help. If you can’t get over your issues with me, there’s the door.”

Hironimus shifts from foot to foot, glancing from me to Gordy. A generic combination of uncertainty and fear and hope.

“Fine,” he says. “My sister, Ary, disappeared fourteen months ago.” He pulls a crinkled photo from his pocket, trying to smooth the ceases against the table. The picture shows the two of them smiling widely at the camera, two identical sets of green eyes and hooked noses. In the background a brick building with iron grating over the windows.

“Where was this taken?” I ask.

“Outside the train station. She lives in Capital City and was in town to visit. On the second day of her trip she vanished. I thought at first she might have left, but found out later that she never returned to work.”

“Why would she have left?”

He hangs his head. “Because we had a huge fight,” he admits. “She was working with an organization, they don’t exist anymore, but they were lobbying for equal treatment. The group was starting to fracture, some wanted to focus more specifically on subspecies rights. I thought she was letting herself be played by staying with the original goal.”

“What were you doing when she vanished?”

“Sleeping. We fought and I went to bed. I heard the shower running and a little later the light turned off. I assumed she’d gone to bed too. But when I woke up, she was gone, and her bed appeared untouched.”

I raise an eyebrow at Gordy. Not a lot to go on. Hironimus takes a deep breath and stands.

“Just let me know if you find anything,” he says. “She was…she is my best friend.”

The door shuts quietly and for a moment the apartment feels empty.

“I think you oversold us my friend.”

“I did no such thing,” complains Gordy. “He expects nothing.”

“That’s not what his aura says,” I mutter. Louder I continue. “This is your friend. Where do you suggest we start? What do you know about Ary?”

“Very little,” he admits.

“Alright. I want to know everything about her.” My mind is beginning to kick into gear. I feel exhilarated. “I want to know her friends, personality, likes, and dislikes.” I close my eyes, recapturing Hironimus’s aura. I need to become her. I stand.

“I’ll be back,” I say.

Hironimus is just outside the building by the time I dash down the stairs.

“Do you still have her stuff?” I ask.

*

I read everything Gordy finds on Ary, only then opening the musty duffle Hironimus retrieves from his apartment. Old air puffs forth as if the bag itself has been holding its breath. Limply folded clothes, a pair of shoes, miscellaneous bathing accessories. Ary travels light. I turn my gaze inward, recalling all I’ve read on Ary. Gently I touch her items, seeking any hints as to who she is, where she might have gone.

A strange crawling sensation comes over me, as if I am moving out of my skin. I stand, still holding the sweater. It’s the same sweater Ary wore in the photo at the train station, a dark maroon. My body moves of its own accord, and fascinated I allow it, watching myself as if separate from my body. My eyes close and I sway gently. I spin. I can feel it now, even as I continue watching. I dance holding the musty sweater, dodging the boxes and dirty clothes Gordy has strewn about this room. In my periphery I see something, but every time I look it vanishes. I can approach only indirectly, and so I continue to watch myself dance in a strange hypnotic manner, all the while the vision in my periphery grows in detail and intensity.

_The bricks gleam in bright reds and joyful browns, late summer warm air tips the grass gently. My brother smiles with a hint of sadness, darkness maybe, but I brush it off it is unimportant now that I am here everything is unimportant I want to forget for a little bit the hypocrisy of Capital City and the people there who cares if they are Sapiens or Neander Dryadalis even Leporem we are all just people and once sure maybe it was a hundred thousand years or so but still ONCE we were all one people and really shouldn’t it still be that way…_

I gasp, rushing into my body suddenly if coming up for air, the muted world under the water a dream. Gordy stares.

“I’m sure if you like the sweater Hironimus would let you keep it,” he says helpfully.

“What just happened?” I ask myself.

I’ve projected energy out over a quarter of a mile radius before. I’ve changed minds, temporarily, and I’ve made people believe what I want about me. I can appear male, or younger, or older, depending upon the energy I share. But I’ve never entered someone’s mind. Certainly not the mind of someone not even present.

The sweater dangles from between my fingers, offensively normal. It emits no particular aura, no mystical energy. It is nothing more than what it appears. A damn sweater.

I pluck another piece of clothing form the bag, this one a t-shirt that reads “Capital City Marathon.” Why not. I close my eyes. The sensation of drifting returns and I let it take over. It’s even easier to fall into this time, and I move rhythmically, twisting limbs until the vision in the corner of my eye takes center stage. This one is less clear, I’m not quite present, although I can feel Ary somewhere just outside my line of sight.

_A dark underground with bars on the windows that occupy just the top few inches of the room a dirty concrete floor I’m on my knees and peering through the fabric of a canvas bag on my head the sounds of others at least six maybe seven others and the heavy boots of those that keep guard and change out every so often even less often tossing the stale husks of bread onto the dusty floor where once I wouldn’t touch it but now the hunger is so acute that I do I must or else I would die as that one prisoner did days and years ago I’ve lost track of the time and I’m hungry but not so much as I thirst…_

The emergence is less violent this time, but no less startling. Gordy is still staring.

“What is going on?” he asks in his baffled manner.

“I’m not sure,” I say, carefully folding and replacing the shirt. “I seem to be getting, um.” I shake my head because I already know how stupid it’s going to sound aloud. “I’m getting visions,” I say.

“Whoa,” breathes Gordy. “That is so awesome. Are you, like, psychic now?”

“No Gordy, I’m not psychic. But I did see a place and I’m hoping you can narrow down some locations for us.”

“Right-o boss. Whatcha got?”

I struggle to remember.

“It was tough to see. They had something over my head. But, uh, concrete floor of a basement. Exposed brick walls.” I cast into my memory, forcing myself to notice the smaller details not obscured by the hood.

“Smells of rust and grease. Hot metal. Distant street noise but something much louder, a kind of rushing. Buzzing of electricity…”

“That’s it?” I cast about for something, anything. A scrap of paper, name spoken.

“Windows on the top six or so inches.”

Gordy perks up. “Sun?”

“Yeah. Coming in…like this.” I demonstrate the approximate angle off his window.

“Ok.” He begins typing. “If we assume this vision was contemporaneous with real time… I can at least look for building that would be getting sun based on their location. And then narrow by those with basements…”

“You’re awesome Gordy.”

“I know.” Something nags at me. I need to see my brother.

*

I walk right into Fancy and fortunately Glitter is out front today and recognizes me before the bouncer can push me back out.

“Hey,” I say. “Is Marcus around?”

“Marcus?”

“Marc,” I correct. “Marc Ferrari?”

“Of course. He’s back here.” She leads me through the vanishing door on the black wall, backstage and then up a set of steep, claustrophobia-inducing stairs. We go up two flights before she pushes open the simple wooden door. Despite the tiny stairwell and simple look of the club, the residential portion above is surprisingly nice. Dark wood columns frame the wide hallway which splits of in three directions, right, left, and straight ahead. Two rooms branch off those, all large and with bunk beds visible. Glitter smiles.

“Normally women aren’t allowed on this floor but it’s day hours,” she explains. “Marc is in the quad to the left. If he isn’t in the room one of his roommates should know where to find him.”

“Thanks.”

He isn’t in the room, but as Glitter promised, one of his roommates offer me direction down to the subbasement kitchen. In the corner bunk I spot a leather jacket on a table filled with pomade and hair product.

“It this Marcus...Marc’s?”

“Yeah.”

I wander closer. His scent permeates the jacket, too much cologne. I should have figured what with his hair gel obsession. I wrinkle my nose to block the excess odor but can’t help touching the soft braided leather on the shoulder.

_“Com’on kid, you’ll need it,” I tease, mussing the sandy hair. I shove him off, ignoring the cold sweat that drips down my back. “Promise you won’t be home late?” he asks, wrapping the slightly too big jacket around his small frame, even for fourteen he’s little and I worry what will happen if he doesn’t grow into his body after we’re not around to protect him. I hug him one last time. “We’ll be home soon,” I whisper. I shut the car door behind me, parents already waiting in the front. I smile and wave out the window as if I’m not afraid. I can’t be afraid for Marc, but Marc already knows because now I’m Marc and I’m watching myself at the age of eighteen, driving away in a car with my parents already knowing I will never see them alive again…_

I move quickly away and the jacket slides off the back of the chair onto the floor.

“You gonna get that?” the roommate asks. “Marc friggin loves that thing. You wouldn’t want him to find it on the floor.”

I shake my head and retreat, the roommate’s pleasant face scowling slightly as he replaces the jacket on the chair.

In the cramped stairwell I press my forehead against the wall trying to drown out the static. My breath sounds loud in my ears but I’m still not getting enough oxygen.

“Hey!” Marc pats me softly on the shoulder. “You ok? I hate this tiny space too.”

“I’m fine,” I say, roughly breaking from his grip. I can’t touch him, it might trigger another latent memory. I have to get away. I stumble down the stairs, catching myself against the railing.

“It’s nothing,” I say in response to his silent question. Marc stares, pale eyes unmoving as I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m running away, as far as I can get.

*

“Get what you needed from your brother?” Gordy asks without looking up from his screen. His brow furrows in concentration that tells me he isn’t really listening.

“Yeah, we talked it over and we’re adopting a triceratops,” I say. “How’s your search going?”

“Pretty good,” he says slowly. “It was impossible at first. But then, I figured out I could write an algorithm to solve this faster. And boom!”

“So you’ve got a location?”

“Not quite. But I’ve narrowed it down to three possible locations.”

Gordy spins the screen around. The black and green street map contains three buildings outlined in red.

“Alright. Let’s figure out what we can about these buildings and see if Hironimus knows of any connection.”

“Way ahead of you,” says Gordy, grabbing a jacket. “I called Hironimus and told him to meet us at the first one in fifteen minutes.”

Hironimus jumps up and down slightly outside the first building, a local elementary school. Brown and yellow leaves drift by in the brisk chilly wind.

“I’m here,” Hironimus says. “Odd meet-up location.”

“We’re scouting places your sister might be,” I say. “Does this place mean anything to you?”

Hironimus glances around, looking lost. “Not really? Does this mean you know something?”

“Not exactly. We have a hunch.”

I know immediately it’s the wrong thing to say. Color rises in his face, the bitter taste of betrayal and hopes raised only to be dashed again.

“This is just a freaking hunch!”

“She’s psychic!” Gordy says, eyes shining.

“I’m not psychic,” I interrupt. “Look, Hironimus, something crazy happened when I went through Ary’s things. It sent us here, or rather to a few locations with certain features. Please. Trust us.”

Hironimus breaths heavily, creating little steam clouds that dissipate quickly.

“Fine,” he says. “But only because Ary would want me to be nice.”

Angrily he turns and stalks off to his car.

“So should we explore inside?” asks Gordy. I watch Hironimus retreat.

“Maybe later,” I respond. “I’m curious if any of the other places will trigger something from him.”

As we climb into Gordy’s old car I can’t help but think about Hironimus and his outsized reaction.

“What’s the deal with him and his sister?” I ask aloud. I mean it rhetorically, a puzzle for myself but unexpectedly Gordy obliges with a response.

“They’ve always been crazy close,” he explains. “Did everything together. She was super protective of him growing up. She was his hero and he was so proud when she went off to Capital City.”

He shakes his head.

“Somewhere they had a falling out. He disagreed with her, on something totally stupid, and they stopped talking for a year. The trip she disappeared was their first time together after that. Sucks.”

The engine whines loudly as Gordy takes a turn a bit too fast.

“Wow,” I manage. “Do you have any siblings?”

I realize I know hardly anything about the Dryadalis that no-questions-asked saved me a night on the street and has hosted me rent-free ever since.

“Just me,” he says proudly. “I like to think they realized they’d experienced the pinnacle of success. That it would only be downhill from there.”

I laugh. “On my earth I was an only child,” I confide. “It’s easier I think.”

“Maybe. But at least with a brother or sister, you’ve always got someone there. Parents want you out at some point, friends change, significant others come and go… But siblings? They’re there forever.” He looks almost wistful.

“Aww, Gordy,” I say. “You’ve always got me. I’ll be your surrogate sister.”

“Really?”

“Why not? You’re the pinnacle of success, right?” I tease.

“Damn straight,” he says with a grin.

The warehouse that matches our next addresses elicits no response from Hironimus. I hear him mutter under his breath about this being a waste of time. It’s tempting to try and touch him, see if any further visions come but I am both excited and terrified of the prospect of more. For now the terror wins. It’s too uncontrollable and leaves a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“One more,” says Gordy in his perpetually cheerful manner. Hironimus shots him a dirty look which Gordy either ignores or fails to notice.

We pull in front of a nondescript brick building with bars. It feels familiar and the crowds of people heading out quickly tell me why.

“The train station?” I ask Gordy.

“Yeah,” he says. “The old one. This one only does a few commuter routes, it’s mostly cargo these days. The new one downtown is more heavily used.”

“This is where Ary came into town,” I say.

“This is starting to feel like a bad joke,” says Hironimus upon joining us on the busy sidewalk. I ignore him, heading into the interior of the station. This must be it. That or the visions mean nothing. I can believe wither one.

Despite its appearance on the outside, the interior of the station is surprisingly spacious. Exposed brick extends at least two stories high and further opened by the prominent skylights above that do the work of lighting most of the interior. A small café occupies space in one corner but otherwise benches line the sides, with the center open in front of a digital display announcing incoming and outgoing trains. It smells of travel, leather luggage and wet jackets, a hint of body odor and stress. No sign of a basement or lower level.

I move towards the walls, trying to recall the angle of the sun, the direction of noises in the vision. Tucked behind the restrooms is a door marked “Danger.” I push through.

“Wait, shouldn’t we…” Gordy’s voice trails off as the door closes behind me.

The lighting is dim, but far from completely dark. Even the grey light outside is sufficient to light this space. Hot water heaters and other machinery grind loudly. The concrete floor shows no sign of dust, suggesting regular traffic. I press through the humming mass. The inability to discern any other sound unnerves me. I could be making a ton of noise and not even know it. I take extra care with each step to avoid scuffing my shoes or letting my jacket swing into the metal exterior of the machinery. The deep vibrations seem to disrupt my ability to sense any energy. The room echoes with vibration and soon I can’t tell if the feeling starts or ends with me.

The wall of metal ends abruptly, sound fading as the exhaust vents move behind me. Three figures, all hooded, lay shackled to the wall, sunlight brightening the space more than should be allowable given the otherwise stark scene. I rush to the closest, pulling the hood from the head. The prisoner blinks in the open air. I fumble with a lock pick, but the shackles won’t budge, I’m too nervous and my pick snaps, the useless tool falling harmlessly from the lock.

No signal on the cell phone. Shit. I’ll have to go back and retrieve Gordy.

Heavy footfalls break the buzzing silence, a conversation a little too loud to compensate for the volume by the gears. Oddly my nerves fade as I stand to face them directly. I’m angry, more than I have a right to be. Ary and the two other nameless captives, their worried families, the regret and things they believed they would never get to say. I feel it all energizing me, powering me forward.

The first one comes into view, dirty gray uniform of maintenance. He opens his mouth in a warning for his partner but it’s too late, my psychic fury has struck. The second one nearly trips over the first, kneeling to see what the problem is before noticing me. I want to destroy him the way these lives were destroyed for months. The crushed Hironimus comes to mind suddenly, his outsized anger, and strangely this calms me down.

“You need to help me release these people,” I say. My energy overtakes his own, replacing his misguided purpose with a desire to assist. Eagerly he undoes the latches, sitting compliantly in Ary’s spot while I chain him to the wall. His companion will wake, but not before we can call the authorities.

“Let’s go,” I tell the captives. They huddle together for support, bound forever by their shared experience, a different but no less meaningful kind of bond.

Hironimus and Gordy rush over as soon as I exit.

“We didn’t know what to do when those guys followed,” says Gordy.

“It’s fine.” I wipe my brow, noticing how dirty my excursion has made me. “We need to call the police to collect them.”

Hironimus just stares at his sister, eyes watery. He rushes over and squeezes her so tight I have to tap him on the shoulder to reduce the pressure.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, turning towards me but eyes not leaving Ary.

“I’m just glad I could help,” I say. Hironimus beams at Ary, holding her close. She sniffles into his jacket, dirty cheek dripping as she finally lets herself cry.

“Nice work boss,” says Gordy. Black uniforms dot the entrances.

“We need to move,” I say. “This won’t exactly be under the radar if I’m caught here.”

“Right-o.”

We make our escape just before the entire attention of the station is directed at the former prisoners and contingent of police descending upon the station, slipping through the growing crowd of onlookers.

I’ve forgotten how good this feeling is, how nice it feels to make a difference. But it reminds me I’ve left one thing undone.

*

I catch Marcus’s eye from across the club. He avoids my gaze but as I approach the bar he opens a bottle of wine and pours a glass, setting the deep purple liquid in front of me. I gaze into the glass, tipping it slightly to better observe the color.

“How’d you know?” I ask.

“Weirdly, you smell of red wine,” he says.

I laugh, tipping it back into my throat. It’s generic stuff, but for right now it’ll do.

“I’m going to speak with your manager about the quality of that stuff,” I say. “It’s appalling.”

Marcus leans against the bar with his elbows. “Tell me about it. You some kind of wine expert?”

I watch the wine swirl, reflecting the flashing lights over the stage.

“Yeah.” I gaze up at him. “I grew up on a vineyard.”

“No way!” He seems genuinely interested. A girl at the other end of the bar that has been waving a hand begins to pout.

“I think you have customers to attend to,” I say.

“Nah,” says Marcus, pulling off his apron. “I’m extra tonight. Let’s go talk.”

He snags the rest of the bottle of wine and leads me into the hidden passage through the back and upstairs. The residential portion feels completely vacant but instead of heading to his shared room he leads us into a small private room with a couch and tv, shutting the curtained door. The room feels muted with heavy fabrics. Secret. Marcus takes a seat on the old couch and something in his demeanor drops. His cover, cool-guy persona falls away. He feels relaxed and at ease. He brushes his hair back, gazing around the room.

“I love this space,” he confesses. “Living with all these people, it’s awesome. But sometimes you just need space to yourself, you know?”

I nod. His silver eyes peer into my soul.

“Tell me about the vineyard,” he says. “What was it like?”

“It was…lonely,” I answer. It surprises me to admit how lonely it was. “We couldn’t…It was too hard for dad to be near people. And mom she…didn’t much like crowds.”

“Huh,” says Marcus. “I guess you didn’t have much control over empathing.”

“No I did. Dad trained me not to over-absorb, and then later, when I moved into the city, I had a mentor. A psychic that taught me how to project. How did you learn?”

Marcus shrugs. “Similar. I mean it was all mom and dad. But over-stimulation has never been an issue here. People on your earth must be crap emotional regulators.”

I chuckle and Marcus pours refills for us. “Yeah.” The wine is tasting better, a clear sigh I’m feeling the effects of the alcohol.

“Hey Marcus?”

“Yeah?” I watch the wine tip from side to side.

“Have you ever had a vision? Like in making contact with an object?”

“I don’t think so. Why?” He sets the glass down as his eyes widen. “Oh gods, seriously? You must be, like, the greatest empath in the world!!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Marcus snorts and tackles me. I fall into the squishy couch as his fingers dig into my rib cage with a feathery movement that causes me to spasm with laughter.

“Ah ha!” he bellows. “I found one similarity between you and Rathe!” He stops suddenly, expression sad. “I meant, my Rathe,” he says. Marcus leans back to his side of the couch, sighing.

“I miss her so much,” he says. Walls down, his earnestness contrasts markedly with his clothing and styled hair.

“I’m sorry.” It’s deeply inadequate, and I know it.

Slowly he tips back towards me, leaning his head against my shoulder. We sit there, unmoving. It’s not until I go to leave several hours later that I notice my shirt is damp from the silent tears of my baby brother.


	5. Legacies

The stocky Neander beams gratefully as Gordy hands him the worn book. The fabric cover of red with gold embossment peels slightly at the corner, but still, remarkable condition for an item estimated at more than two hundred years old.

“Thank you,” she says, cradling the text like a baby and tracing the lettering with a single finger.

“Our pleasure,” I respond. Since recovering Hironimus’s sister, finding people willing to pay for our indeterminate blend of services has been a breeze. It turns out there are all kinds of things people want handled without the involvement of the police. Gordy has even convinced me to let him build a website, Anonymous Mysteries, to better filter requests and deal with the messy issue of payment. I can hardly wait for the day it’s done and his phone stops ringing at all hours.

The door shuts and Gordy and I breathe a sigh of relief. In truth tracking down that damn book has taken it out of me. Between the archive library and its security system what should have been a simple retrieval turned into _The Great Train Robbery_. Assuming, of course, that _The Great Train Robbery_ had been about returning something to its rightful owner instead of, well, robbery.

“We can’t handle all of this,” I say. Gordy frowns slightly, but I can see that he agrees.

“Maybe we hire some help?”

“Right. I’ll post an ad. ‘Help wanted for underground P.I. firm. Oh yeah, ability to detect emotional auras preferred.’”

“Marc could help.”

“Marcus has a job,” I reply sharply. I’m not about to bring him into all this. It’s not exactly dangerous, but arguably requires some less than legal methods. He’s safer at the strip club. I shake my head at the thought. File under: things I never thought would cross my mind.

“We just need to be better about saying no,” I conclude. “Only the most urgent matters.”

“That could get tricky.” I sense hedging in Gordy’s voice.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He shrugs, and I whip around, pressing him into the wall with my forearm. It’s not nearly as impressive as has been done to me by stronger, faster creatures, but Gordy’s never encountered anyone with special ops training. My technique is sufficient to impress him.

“Ok,” he gasps. I release and he rubs his neck. A bit dramatically as I know I wasn’t pressing all that hard. “Here’s the thing. Word’s gotten out that this mysterious agency is run by…you.” He spins his long fingers, ending with an indirect point. “And, well. People around here, they remember.”

“They remember? What the hell does that mean?”

“Your family was kind of a big deal back in the day. Mayor Townsend took up the mantle, but a lot of folks, they think the message got lost. That it was an opportunistic grab.”

“What do you think Gordy?”

He raises his shoulders up to his ears helplessly. “I…think I was young when this happened,” he responds. “But, dude, you need to get used to the fact that in this neighborhood, you’re like a folk hero. Or at least descended from one.”

My head already pounds from the long day. I raise a hand.

“I really don’t need this now. Please stop talking.”

“Fine,” Gordy says. “But I bet Marc would agree.”

I could use a drink.

“Maybe I’ll ask him.”

*

It’s my favorite time to stop by Fancy, early evening after dinner but before the crowd gets to raunchy. These are the regulars, the folks that swing by and know the bouncer and bartenders by name. The clientele that, in the words of Billy, “keep the paychecks coming” while also being the most congenial. Gordy and I are rapidly becoming regulars.

Marcus nods as we enter but continues flirting with the customer. I don’t want to interrupt him at work so I find Glitter.

“Hey cutie,” she says, sliding a glass of wine over. I sniff.

“You’ve upgraded,” I comment.

Glitter leans forward and I can’t help but notice she takes care to press her breasts together slightly.

“Not a lot of people can convince Billy to change his mind about something,” she says with a smile. “What’s your secret?”

Her body language has more than just a hint of invitation. Something simple, no strings could help mask the rawness I feel inside. The gash where the other women I’ve loved were torn away too soon.

“I suppose I’m just persuasive…” I let my fingers extend, reaching toward her hand on the bar. She reaches too and our fingers brush each other teasingly. I’m feeling drunk despite a full glass and wonder how those back rooms work when one’s interested in the bartender.

A loud knock against the front door abruptly breaks the mood and my hand jumps back to my side of the bar.

“Port City Police,” calls the voice. “We need the lights up and everyone to show some ID. Hop to it.”

Glitter rolls her eyes as the house lights come up, everything that a moment ago was soft and sensual suddenly jarring and jagged. Audible groans emerge from the crowd. In addition to the uniformed officers a few plainclothes are present as well, Detective Parker among them. I avert my eyes but she spots me and beelines for my portion of the club, checking IDs as she makes her inevitable approach. I extract mine, a temporary ID seeing as I was legally dead and new documents take time to gain approval.

“ID?” she asks, hand extended, tone suggesting I’m just another patron while her energy clearly signals I’m not.

“Missing me detective? You should just call next time.” She holds her face impassive but heat creeps up her neck.

“I thought you were supposed to be staying out of trouble,” she says. “This isn’t someplace I’d recommend.”

“I’m just here for the food,” I say. “And the company.” I wink at Glitter who blushes.

“You have surprising taste Ms. Adler,” the detective replies in a steely neutral pitch.

“You only say that because you have none. Tell me, what brings the Port City police to a strip club on a weekday night? Is there really nothing better for you to do?”

“Watch your tone Rathe Adler.”

“You won’t hurt me.” It’s a command, for I feel the energy radiate from my skin, overwhelming her merely human mental capacity. Confusion washes visibly over her body as the anger from a second ago vanishes, gone but not quite forgotten.

The police captain whistles. “All clear for now. Let’s move out.”

I smile pleasantly at the confused Detective Parker.

“My ID?”

“Right.” Distractedly she returns it to me, rejoining the other officers in the front. She turns before exiting, her eyes watching me carefully.

“She never checked my ID,” says Glitter in a low wondering tone.

“I know. I hope that’s ok.”

“You knew?”

I extend my hand back across the bar.

“Hey. Whatever you’re running from, you deserve to be safe here. You made me feel like I belonged when I was at a real low point. The least I could do was offer some protection when you needed it.”

“Wow,” she says. “It’s true what they’re saying then.”

“What?”

“That you’re the Adler heir. The son vanished, most people think he was killed like the rest of the family. You coming back to life…it’s like a kind of miracle. And here you are, working actual miracles.”

A bad feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to grow.

“No, no, no. It’s not like that at all,” I correct. “I’m just a person that happens to be here. I can’t help anyone. Not really.”

“But you already have! I’ve heard about Anonymous Mysteries. Every subspecies has. And the fact that it’s an Adler enterprise…”

I gulp the wine much faster than I should.

“This was great,” I say. “Um, but I forgot something I need to do.”

Marcus is still flirting but I judge my need to talk to him as more urgent. Loudly I clear my throat. He glances at me quickly and continues to talk, waving his hands, a signal he’s working on extraction. Good. Finally, he maneuvers away on the premise of needing to wipe down the counter near me.

“What’s the deal?” he asks. “First a bust and now you’re freaking out?”

“Marcus, why did you change your name to Ferrari?”

He grins. “Why, you jealous? I’d let you be a Ferrari but I think Rathe is too unusual a name. You’d need to change it. Maybe Rachel, like mom.”

I deflate.

“So it was to escape the Adler name?” As opposed to some goofy adolescent urge.

“Bingo. Although you have to admit it’s got a great ring. But yeah. In the foster system my last name changed so much I figured what was one more? Believe it or not, but it’s gotten better. When I aged out, there were all kinds of Adlerites that would have wanted this or that.” He shakes his head.

“I wanted to live my own life, you know? Marcus Adler would never be able to do that. But Marc Ferrari can.”

I let my head fall to the counter.

“Just figuring that out now, eh?” he says wryly. “I forget that you weren’t around for all that craziness. No wonder you let Gordy put your name up on that website.”

Shit. I forgot completely about that. Gordy sprawls across one of the oversized chairs chatting up another regular. I kick his dangling leg.

“You didn’t tell me the website went live,” I say in a low voice.

“Yeah,” he says, face lighting up. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Surprise!” I glance around quickly.

“My name can’t be there. It draws too much attention.” Gordy’s face falls slightly. “Ok. But it’s great advertising.”

I shake my head.

“I’ll change it when we get home,” he says, turning to resume his conversation. I clear my throat.

“Now,” I say.

“Ok, ok. Sourpuss,” he adds.

Everything feels off. The police raid has thrown a wrench into a night that was supposed to be all about relaxation. Maybe if Gordy gets the website changed I’ll feel better. As he drives I scan the red lights of cars moving past. I don’t know what I expect to see.

We trudge up the creaky wooden steps to the apartment. A door slams and pounding feet signal a retreat. Someone headed out to enjoy the night. My heart pounds and hands are damp with cold sweat. I must be getting sick. Gordy inserts the key into the lock.

“For the record, I think we could have wai–”

The blast drowns out the rest of his comment. Instinctively I duck, embers and debris fly into my side, stinging and burning. I cough in the thick smoke plume that emerges from the wrecked apartment.

“Gordy!”

His body lies across the threshold, a deep red gash growing along the side of his torso. His breath emerges low and weak, eyes closed. Summoning every ounce of strength I can, I crouch, lifting his hips onto my shoulder. My ears ring but I sense that calling for help would be to no avail. No one is coming. Everyone else was warned.

Somehow I make it out to his car, inelegantly dropping Gordy across the backseat. I retrieve the towel he keeps in the truck, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Scratches line his face and arms, but none nearly as serious. As I drive I call Marcus, over and over, but it keeps going to voicemail.

_Shit_.

I go to the only other place I can think of in my blast-induced haze. I park on the street outside the police station, sprinting in and ducking into the stairwell to the morgue. I stumble across the bottom step before remembering her preference for space. The tiny figure of Kathryn Li starts from the corner of the morgue, a hand poised over the open chest cavity of a corpse.

“I need help,” I say. My voice trembles. “My best friend…”

“What happened to you?” I realize that I must look pretty rough as well. I touch my face, fingers coming away sticky and browning red.

“He took the worst of it. He’s in the car out front. Unconscious.” I don’t know why I trust her, and I don’t know why she trusts me, but I don’t have any other options.

“Around back there’s a direct morgue entrance,” she says. Any sign of nerves has vanished. She is all authority and efficiency. “Bring him in that way. I’ll prepare a gurney.”

“Thank you.”

“Hurry,” she responds.

Between the two of us we manage to extract Gordy from the back seat onto the metal gurney. Kathryn Li tosses the soaked towel in a biohazard bag and cuts open the side of his ruined shirt. Shockingly it looks even worse in full view. My stomach heaves as Kathryn eyes the wound methodically.

“If you need to vomit please head to the restroom,” she says, her eyes never leaving Gordy. I try to draw her calm but I’m too shaken by the bomb, the knowledge that someone planted it for us. The fear that Gordy won’t make it. His face is pale and the monitor Kathryn hooked up beats erratically in a pattern even I can tell is bad.

She extracts a syringe and plunges it into his heart and the monitor accelerates rapidly. Wiping just enough of the blood away to see the edge of the wound she prods against the deep red tissue with a thin silver tool. Pausing she extracts a small item, depositing it in a nearby canister. It clanks against the metal walls. She pulls another. Clank. Another. Clang. Too many to count as the bleeding renews, bright red against the darker shade of drying blood. Minutes stretch on interminably long as her examination continues. Finally, she drops the tool and begins to close the wound. Gordy’s heart beats too quickly, but in a more reassuring staccato pattern. Kathryn steps away and in a single smooth motion pulls both bloodied gloves off, dropping them into the biohazard bag.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” she says. A strange of dark hair falls in front of her face and she brushes it idly aside.

“We don’t keep blood transfusions here. Dead people don’t need them.” She gestures. “He’s not dead yet, but he still could be. He needs a hospital.”

I shake my head. If our apartment neighbors were alerted about the bomb, I have a feeling hospitals are standing by, ready to inform whomever it is that wants us dead.

“I’m serious,” she says, more empathically. “He needs blood.”

“Can you give him mine?”

She blinks as the thought rolls around. Her lips purse in concentration.

“I can try.”

I roll up my sleeve. “Whatever you need,” I say.

Wooziness sets in quickly as Kathryn begins to draw blood from my arm. I focus on Gordy, his long lashes appearing even more dramatic than usual against his pale skin. Kathryn doesn’t speak as the bag fills. I’m about to float away when she pinches the tube and removes the needle, dabbing with cotton and indicating I should hold it down. Her anxiety has returned at a low level. I want to tell her its ok. That I’m basically a corpse myself. But the words stick to my tongue. The room is turning hazy so it takes a moment to register that there is now a white sheet over my body.

“I’ve told you before, please don’t bother me down here.” Kathryn’s voice is strong but with a hint of desperate panic. I remain motionless. Another voice, much deeper responds with crude language.

“Get out before I call for back-up,” she says. I strain to hear the follow-up but there is nothing for several seconds until the white sheet raises off me.

“Sorry about that,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “No one is supposed to enter during my shift.” Her hand tremors slightly. I reach for her and she freezes in panic. Overwhelming anxiety, need for space, fear uncontrollable of anguished purple, despair and loneliness tempered only slightly by the presence of human-like figures around. I share my own fear with her, my own loneliness, my sole friend grievously injured, a brother I barely know, parents gone, loves lost… For a brief moment we connect before she pulls away, breathing heavily, eyes averted.

“What are you? I…I need you to go,” she says. “No one is supposed to be here.”

“How long?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“Always,” she says with a half-gulp. “It was always hard. But a few years ago…I had to leave medical school. I can’t…”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m here. Gordy’s here. You saved his life.”

“A fluke. It won’t last.” She pushes her hair back, inadvertently messing it up more. Nervously she shakes her hands, retreating instinctively.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.” I glance at Gordy, patched up but still pale and breathing shallowly.

“You shouldn’t move him,” Kathryn says. She eyes the gurneys awaiting attention.

“Go on,” I say. “I’ll let you know if anything changes here.”

She nods and heads into the office, replacing her bloodied smock with a clean one and donning fresh gloves. Methodically she arranges the corpse, circling the body and making notes before slicing a “Y” into the chest. I turn away.

“Hey I’ve been wanting to ask you, why did you help me out the other day?”

She continues her examination of the body’s internal organs, seeing more comfortable now that we are not making eye contact and her hands are occupied.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I really shouldn’t have. I mean, technically you could have gotten the report via public records request. But something…” she reddens slightly, “it reminded me of when I had friends. I wanted to help.”

She pulls a bulbous organ from the cavity, possibly a liver, placing it on a scale and then into a jar. Her gaze darts to my face briefly.

“You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Not at all. I think you’re lonely. And I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. Sure, you don’t really like people. I get that. They’re loud, they think too much, feel too much, and have no sense of control. But that doesn’t mean you can never have friends.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe we could be friends,” I offer. “Hell, you’ve already helped me out twice in a major way. At this point, I owe you.”

She half-laughs.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Rathe Adler. Yes, those Adlers, but, please let’s not make it a thing,” I add quickly. Crap. I shouldn’t have shared my name.

“Uh, empath. P.I.-ish. Recently believed dead.” Unexpectedly she smiles.

“Then I guess we could be friends. Seeing as my friends tend to be the dead.” From twenty feet away she extends a hand, gloved and covered with the insides of some poor sap whose chest remains splayed open.

“Kathryn Li,” she says. “First Li in four generations to drop out of medical school. Third-shift medical examiner for the Port City Police Department. Agoraphobe.”

I extend a hand and despite the distance our virtual shake feels warm and connected.

Gordy’s heart monitor picks up with an extra blip. His eyes open wide.

“Rathe,” he gasps, dark eyes roaming around. “Everything hurts.”

I clutch his face, laughing. “I’m so glad,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because it means you’re going to be alright.”

My phone buzzes. Marcus. Finally.

“Where have you been?!?” I ask.

“I was, uh, kind of in the middle of something,” he says in a smirking tone.

“Ugh, gross.” I desperately wish I could scrub my brain of the mental image his tone conveys.

“Hey you asked,” he replies. “What’s up?”

“Someone planted a bomb at Gordy’s.”

“Holy shit.”

“We’re fine,” I say quickly. “Well I am. Gordy will be. A…friend patched him up. But we need a place to stay. Discretely.”

I squeeze my eyes. This is a huge ask. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.

“Absolutely,” Marcus says without hesitation. “Billy will be stoked. He’s been asking.”

“Well, uh, alright.” I glance at Gordy. “I guess we’ll be by in a bit.”

Kathryn retreats to the office, emerging with a small packet of painkillers.

“Standard over-the-counter stuff,” she explains. “But better than nothing.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know how to make it up to you.” She smiles shyly.

“That’s what friends are for.”

Marcus waits out front and directs us to the employee entrance on the side of Fancy, helping half-carry Gordy. Once of the lower bunks in Marcus’s room has been cleared out.

“Thought it was best to have people that could keep an eye on him,” Marcus explains.

“Good thinking.”

He leads me to the private lounge room.

“I hope this is ok for now. There isn’t an opening in one of the girl’s rooms.”

A sharp rap on the doorframe catches both of our attention. Billy peers in inquiringly, shutting the curtained door behind him. His broad forehead and stout frame betray a mind deep in thought. With three full grown people the room is uncomfortably cramped. Marcus and I clump together on the couch, making room for Billy’s Neander form in the limited standing space. His eyes, too small for his otherwise large face are difficult to place. He appears nervous. Marcus avoids my gaze.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that we are at a delicate time,” Billy begins. My heart sinks. He’s going to kick me out. I suppose I’ll get by as long as Gordy can stay. I open my mouth to offer the compromise but Billy raises a hand indicating there’s more.

“We’ve made great strides in the past year. Having you on our side…” he shakes his head. “You have no idea what it means to people.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you need me to leave?”

“No,” he says, seeming affronted at the thought.

“Then I’m not following.”

“You’re here to help, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “It’s the least I can do for you taking us in.”

Billy beams, taking a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He extends a sturdy hand.

“Welcome to the resistance.”


	6. Resistance

“I’m sorry, what?”

The smile on Billy’s face dims a watt.

“The resistance. I thought you wanted to join.”

I try to stand but it’s too awkward and cramped and I end up falling back into the couch.

“I just need a place to stay,” I say. “I’ve never heard of the resistance. Have you heard of the resistance?” I ask Marcus.

“Of course I have,” he says. “I’ve been here for six years.” My jaw drops.

“We could do so much good,” says Billy. “Having an Adler on our side…”

“You’ve had one!” I’m yelling now. Billy shakes his head.

“Marc isn’t an Adler. Not in the eyes of the public. He was too young when your parents died, and they took pains to keep him away from the spotlight. Marcus Adler disappeared in the state foster system. Marc Ferrari joined the cause and has done much for us.” Billy nods appreciatively at Marcus. He turns his attention back to me.

“But you… You were eighteen, a sign of hope and the united future we could have. Now you’ve returned and it’s time to see the prophesy fulfilled.”

I laugh harshly.

“Absolutely not. That’s not me. I don’t remember any of it. How can I be this person I don’t even remember??”

“But you could,” says Marcus in a low tone. He continues to avoid my gaze, only reluctantly raising his eyes from the straggled carpet.

“You said you were seeing visions, things that happened in the past of others. You can use that to recall your own history. To remember who you were. Who you are,” he corrects.

“I don’t think so. It’s not exactly something I can control.”

“Then learn to control it,” Marcus says. There is a firmness to his voice that reminds me of my father. The inside of my nose tingles and I blink to suppress tears. “Control is not new for people like us.”

Billy watches us silently. I sigh, letting my shoulders slump forward. Billy inhales and I feel his gentle palm on my back.

“We will always protect you,” he says. I shake my head.

“Protect Marcus.”

*

Marcus makes me avert my eyes while he digs into the back of his closet. I try to ignore the rustling sounds of clothes and other miscellaneous objects, not wanting to detect the hiding spot he so clearly wishes to preserve. He emerges with a shake of his hair, shady curls bouncing before settling into their practiced casual lean.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready.”

He holds a shoebox carefully and we both sit on the lower bunk belonging to his roommate.

“This is everything I have left from…before.” A few bent and faded photographs. A hopelessly outdated game console. A t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. A CD case, empty. And finally, a silver necklace with two interlocking rings.

“Tell me about it,” I say. “What is this stuff?”

“Well pictures, obviously.” He flips through them quickly, too quickly for me to process properly. I see flashes of half-formed images. A house. Someone on a slide. A striking man waving with a politician’s confidence. Family bundled in ski gear.

“This was mine, I’m not sure why I kept it,” Marcus says, setting aside the game console. “Every summer dad insisted on a family vacation but he hated to fly. So we always drove, hundreds of miles, mom singing corny songs, you reading, and dad cursing at other drivers. This is what I did.” He pats the bulky console with something akin to affection.

“Weirdly it reminds me of being with all of you. You liked to distract me when I was at critical points in the game.”

He pulls out the shirt, heavy with wrinkles. In a large embroidered patch it advertises for World Championships of Diving, 1993, Capital City.

“You loved this thing,” he says. “Mom took you and friend and she said you insisted on the shirt even though they were sold out of the small sizes. So she got you an extra large and you slept in it, even up until… You know.”

Carefully he brings the shirt to his nose for just a second.

“When the state came and told me to pack I brought it because I knew you would want it when you woke up. I tried to get them to put it on you but they said it was against protocol.” He blinks rapidly.

“Probably a good place to start,” I say. The fabric on the sleeve is worn and faded, just beginning to fray.

Marcus looks at me expectantly.

“Anything?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s not that easy. I need to meditate. Center.”

“Right.”

He pops down to the floor, crossing his legs and placing an upturned hand on either knee.

“I think it’s something I should do in private,” I say as gently as possible. “Alone.”

“Right.” He tries to not sound disappointed but it doesn’t quite land.

“Hey,” I say. “Once I figure this out I’d be happy to…vision in front of you. It’s just pretty new still.”

“I get it,” he says, standing. He takes a breath looking at the rest of the shoebox. “I guess I’ll leave this stuff out in case you want to mix it up,” he says.

I nod, and carefully fold the shirt in my arms, heading for my temporary bedroom.

“Gordy!”

He’s sprawled across the couch, despite it being at least two feet too short for his body, laptop on his stomach, head craning upwards, and legs dangling off the edge.

“I still have a job!” he says. “This is the quietest spot I could find.”

“Ugh. Fine, I’ll leave.”

“Thanks,” he calls in a sing-songy tone.

I roam the residential floors but every room has occupants. Frustrated I head to the subbasement where the kitchen is. Oddly this space is empty, although certain to not remain that way. A door with no latch swing easily when I push. I find myself in a small surprisingly warm nook containing several washers and dryers, none in use. Promising.

I set myself down on the padded floor. Lemon and floral odors pervade my senses and induce gentle drowsiness. The fibers of the shirt come into sharp focus, the quitted over-under pattern, the cut of the head and arms, the stitching on the logo beginning to come undone. I try to imagine the scene Marcus described, willing my mind to detach, to see more. The light forms patterns behind my eyelids, a mesmerizing kind of kaleidoscope. The floor is not as comfortable as I’d hope so I shift, trying once more to center.

By the time I hear voices in the kitchen I’ve about given up. I feel stupid sitting in the middle of an empty laundry room holding a shirt hoping for…what? A miracle?

Frustration wells up from my core. This other version is me is a complete stranger. She had a life I can’t even recognize, one with a sibling, and parents that weren’t recluses but leaders in the community. I’m an imposter. A pretender. It hits home how much I don’t belong in this world.

Marcus is still in the quad when I return. He hops to his feet with a hopefully expression that I quickly dash with a curt shake of the head.

“Maybe something else,” he suggests.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I need to clear my head.”

Trash blows down the alley outside of Fancy, the voice of people on the move trickles over from the opposite street. I hike the collar of the jacket up to block the chilly wind. I’ve never walked around this area but the daylight does little to improve my impression of the area. All the stores in this area feature bars on the window and advertise items for “adults” in gaudy neon. Fancy isn’t the only club in the area. Low traffic suggests that people only come here at night, when the otherwise depressing state of affairs is somewhat obscured.

However a couple blocks over the shady buildings and neon vanish, the rough road widens, and people populate the sidewalks. A clear white building announces itself as a medical school. I can’t help wondering if it’s the same one Kathryn went to. Cheap but clean restaurants line the sidewalk, a hotel. A little further on a theater with ornate gargoyles decorating front. Gold framing surrounds the posters for upcoming events. Coffeeshops, ice cream parlors, and various craft stores add further charm. Maybe this earth isn’t so bad. I wonder why Gordy has never brought me to this part of town when it’s so close to Fancy.

I duck into an ice cream shop. It may be chilly but something about ice cream sounds perfect. A childhood memory, my own childhood memory, that I can perhaps recreate to feel less alone. Less lost. A young man, I peg him as a medical student, smiles from behind the counter. At least forty flavors line the display.

“Sorry, I…”

“It’s fine,” he says pleasantly. “Take your time.”

While I peruse, a father and son enter. The father wears an old olive green army jacket, stained and a bit too large. A black knit cap covers his head. The child trails behind, a baseball cap tucked low over his head.

“Hats off,” says the employee roughly. I raise my head. Other customers that had been chatting, lower their voices and look away.

“Hats off,” he repeats.

Slowly the father removes his cap. His ears poke through the tops of his long, scraggly hair.

“Get out,” says the employee firmly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The father gulps and tugs on his son’s arm. Customers pretend to avert their gaze, but tittering increases sharply as soon as the offending pair leave, with several customers openly watching them through the window.

“Why shouldn’t they be here?” I ask as neutrally as possible. I can’t help but think of Gordy and his long hair and penchant for knit caps.

“I apologize for that,” the employee says. “We try to keep this neighborhood nice.”

“They seemed nice,” I offer.

His smile hardens. “Did you make your decision?”

“Yeah. I’m not really in the mood for ice cream.”

The bell chimes as I leave, sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. Now that I know to look for it, I can’t believe I didn’t spot it before. Everyone on the street is Sapiens, or at least physically close enough to pass for one. The stocky, broad-foreheaded Neanders; the long, pointy-eared Dryadalis are nowhere to be seen.

I retreat back to Fancy feeling deeply ashamed. No wonder Gordy never took me there.

*

“Hey Marcus, you ever been out to the theater district?” I ask when I return.

“Yeah, once or twice,” he says in surprise. “It’s the Mayor’s pet project. She’s been pouring money into the area to develop it. I think she’s hoping to put pressure on the red light zone.”

“How do they keep it Sapiens only? Isn’t that illegal?”

He shrugs. “Yeah technically. But they make it pretty unpleasant. Small things. The wrong subspecies can be arrested for goofy things in the T.D. Words gets around, people want to stay out of trouble, there you have it. A Sapiens-only district.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Not yet. But I expect it will.” He eyes me intently. “This is why the resistance is so important,” he says. “This is why you need to remember.”

“What if I can’t?”

Now that I’ve said it aloud I realize how deeply that frightens me. And not just because of the implied failure, but because what it says about my own life, my own memories of other earths.

“Marcus…” My voice comes out as barely a whisper as I share the fear that has gripped me ever since I awoke in that hospital bed. “What if none of it was real? What if I am crazy like they said.” I shatter suddenly, unable to hold back the flood. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Marcus grabs me, squeezing tightly and I feel his confidence that I am solid, that I exist.

“Does it matter?” he asks quietly. “Because it doesn’t to me. Whether you came back to life or through some technology I can’t even begin to understand were downloaded into the body of my sister you are still Rathe Adler, right?”

I nod.

Good,” he smiles. “Because I know Rathe Adler, and regardless of which earth she lives on, she’s a good person. She would find a way to make it happen.”

A half-laugh escapes my lips. Of course. I’ve been thinking about this all wrong, limited by what I think I know about this world. How would I have solved this on any other earth?

“I need to go see someone,” I say, rising.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” says Marcus with a smile. He reaches for his jacket, slinging it on casually. “Let’s go.”

“I’m fine on my own,” I say.

His silver eyes sparkle. “Sis, hasn’t anyone every told you that you’re a crap liar?”

We wait until later in the evening, after the third shift has started, just to make sure we don’t accidently run into anyone else. Kathryn moves with precision around her latest patient, making quiet notes into a voice recorder held close to her face, pausing occasionally to peer at the corpse for closer inspection. I clear my throat loudly to announce our arrival. With a single finger she indicates I should wait. Marcus bounces restlessly beside me. She sets down the recorder and smiles, waving gently. Marcus hops forward and startled, she bumps into a gurney behind her. I grab Marcus’s hand.

“Hi Kat,” I say. “Thanks for letting me swing by on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she says. “Though, I assumed you’d be coming alone.” Her dark brown eyes flick nervously towards Marcus.

“My fault,” I say quickly. “This is my brother, Marcus. I was a bit anxious about the procedure so he offered to come along.”

“I suppose that’s alright…”

“Marcus, stay out of the way,” I whisper roughly.

“You act like I have no sense of auras,” he retorts.

“Then act like it.”

“People are too freakin’ delicate,” he mutters.

I clear my throat. “so how does this work?”

“Well, you described an amnesia condition. First I’d like to eliminate the possibility that there is legitimate brain damage.”

“Ha, you have brain damage,” says Marcus.

“Shut up.”

“It’s unlikely,” adds Kathryn with an unsure glance at Marcus. “Seeing as you’re walking and talking without issue, and you seem otherwise unaffected by your time in the coma.”

“Good to know.”

“Once I eliminate that possibility then we know we’re dealing with a simple case of suppressed memories. There are a few drug combinations we can try to unrepress, and a last resort which is a bit more invasive.”

“What’s that?”

“Well…We could manually stimulate the portions of the brain that appear to house the memories. But that’s a last resort.”

One I hope we don’t get to.

“Lead the way doc,” says Marcus.

“I’m not a doctor,” she corrects seriously.

Marcus tilts his head with a confused smile.

Kathryn leads me into an adjoining room containing several pieces of medical and scanning equipment. I lay down on a narrow plastic plank, my head surrounded by a thick cylinder. Warm silver touches my fingers, light, comfort, control. I’m glad Marcus invited himself along. Irritatingly he knows it.

The already uncomfortably small space contracts as the tube begins to hum, drowning out all other noises. Kathryn yells something to Marcus who responds. I feel as if my brain is melting through my ears or maybe my eyes or nose. The humming ceases, replaced by an eerie silence like the depths of the ocean. With a whoosh, noise returns. The plank emerges from the cylinder, Marcus still holding my hand and watching with concern.

“You ok?” he asks.

I nod but my latent anxiety powers through. He squeezes my hand.

“It’s done.”

Kathryn studies the grainy black and white images on the screen. An unconscious frown on her face twitches and deepens as she rotates, zooms in and out across the strange pattern. Marcus watches her intently his face twitching with an urge to laugh at her concentration.

“Good news,” says Kathryn finally. “You do not appear to have damage to the cortex.”

Marcus high-fives me. “Adlers – one. Brain damage – zero.”

“Let’s call it one – one,” I say. “You haven’t been tested.”

“Ouch!”

“Bad, or at least strange news,” continues Kathryn, her frown deepening again. “There are some anomalies I can’t explain. See this area here, while it is undamaged, the scan also shows it’s newer, almost like your body repaired past damage. And here, this is something I’ve never seen before. This should be one-fifth the size.”

She shakes her head, looking at me and then Marcus. I see the pieces coming together, imperfectly.

“When I was in medical school we were taught the physiologic difference between Sapiens, Neander, Dryadalis, and Leporem. This isn’t any of those.”

She takes a step closer, her usual fear of contact forgotten amidst her scientific curiosity.

“What are you?”

“Alien.”

“Huh.” Kathryn turns and walks from the diagnostic room.

“She took that well,” comments Marcus. I take off after her.

“Hey,” I say, jogging up beside her and stepping a few feet away.

“Are we ok?”

“Yeah,” says Kathryn. “I mean, it all makes sense.” She pauses. “So he’s alien too?” she asks glancing towards Marcus. I nod.

“And your other friend? Dryadalis or some kind of look-alike alien?”

“Dryadalis.”

She pauses while it sinks in, laughing unexpectedly.

“I must be the most boring person you know,” she says wryly. “The lone Sapiens.”

“Hardly,” I say. “You’re thoughtful, and smart.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments,” she says. “Let’s see what we can do about getting at those memories.”

“Do I have to go back in the tube?” My heart clenches.

“No. Just lay down here.”

Marcus rejoins us, holding my hand and watching Kathryn with a slight smirk she does her best to ignore. I can hear her heart beating fast, the sweaty anxiety and body odor created by virtue of being so physically close to two other living beings.

“I just need to inject this into your arm,” Kathryn explains. Awkwardly she indicates for Marcus to step aside. He stares at Kathryn blankly.

“Marcus, could you?” I say with exasperation.

“Oh sure,” he says, moving six inches to the side. Kathryn freezes with indecision. Very slowly, overcoming substantial internal resistance, she steps into the small crock Marcus has formed. Her hand shakes slightly as she hovers the needle over my forearm. If Marcus causes me to be stabbed with an errant needle over his desire to torment Kathryn I vow to kick his ass later.

Kathryn’s hand steadies and my arm pinches as a cold sensation creeps from the point of entry up my arm. Kathryn releases a breath, moving quickly away from Marcus’s half embrace.

“All done.” Her hands shake visibly now, but the difficult part is at least behind.

“What the hell Marc?” I whisper as the drug begins to take hold. The lights dim and wave, forming parallel patterns against the gray ceiling.

“I’m here Rathe,” says Marcus. “I’m right here.”

*

_Light flashes. I’m in the hospital bed, staff laze about, I’m not supposed to wake up not ever. I’m drifting through space, lost in time, between universes. Ones and zeros, code, the refined British voice known affectionately as Gideon. A life, two lives compressed into a stick of code, a flash drive, no – something else – something that can cross between universes and that doesn’t exist. Downloaded into a brain. There’s a firearm, the barrel at the end becoming the only thing I can see, the center of the universe towards which all things are inextricably pulled, the one choice, mistake, destiny towards which I was pulled. The beautiful blue of Earth-38 my home, my first love and heartache, the place that showed me there could be more to life. The golden sun of Earth-1, boldness of time, dazzling courage, souls and history. All leading to the Vanishing Point, the end and the beginning, the paradox of which there could be no more but in being the one rule by which it exists has already been violated._

_Instead, another universe, an option where already unliving body exists in need of functioning brain. And so, the conversion of flesh to ones and zeros, of memories to binary code; overwritten and superimposed such that two lives, one of which could not exist and the other of which existed only for technology were now one full body. I wake up startled again and the alarms go off in the hospital bed. The staff laze about no longer, called into rare action for the person who was not supposed to wake up._

_But there is one last gift, one parting message those who vanish are allowed and that is where Gideon, dear Gideon, so much more than your cogs and electronic parts would suggest came in because Gideon sent out a call for help and that call was answered and thus begins your new life here on an earth, we know not which one, but you might as well call it earth-99 for of the binary or two numbers that comprise all your past experiences you have gone as far as you can go and there is no going back from this earth for this world, this blue-green planet, and this body are now your home._


	7. Boxed In

Marcus pesters me for the first five minutes of the drive back to Fancy but falls into a sullen silence when I refuse to answer. He wouldn’t like my answers. I know the truth now. Sort of. My truth anyway. I’m not crazy. The stories I recall of time travel and aliens and heroics all happened, and all happened to me. The other memories, of the other Rathe Adler still exist, but to access them I’ll have to dig beneath my own, a task I don’t feel up for at this juncture.

It’s a relief when Billy yells at Marcus to get to work, knowing I’ll at least have a few hours of peace and quiet. Until I spot Gordy anyway. He’s donned out in a strange-looking costume. Instead of jeans and a ragged t-shirt he’s wearing brown slacks, several inches too short for his legs, that reveal beige socks underneath sitting in beat-up sneakers. On top, a rumpled button-up with a matching brown sport coat. But it’s the hat I really don’t get. Some kind of old hunting cap, fur lined, with the flaps for ears pinned up on the sides. He strides around the club as if standing in for the owner, casually chatting with patrons, shaking hands and sitting down for animated conversations. I tap him on the shoulder.

“Mid-life crisis?” I ask, gesturing to his ensemble. His face falls.

“You don’t like it? I thought it was rather dashing.”

“What are you doing?” I ask, preferring to not respond directly to his question.

“Client consults,” he says proudly. “So I know you said to take down the website, but I had a better idea! I took down our names, and instead there is a code in place. Those that can break it, know to come here, to Fancy, and I’ll seek them out. Good cover, right?”

“Gordy, I…” I glance around. People mill about, some dancing, others at the bar, still more sitting at the tables watching the girls dancing. Alright, maybe I’m just grumpy.

“It’s a great idea,” I say.

“Want to join me?” He’s so excited I find I can’t turn him down. It’s better than trying to get to sleep while my mind is still spinning or ignoring Marcus’s glares from across the club. Gordy leads the way in his ridiculous outfit.

In a dark portion of the club near the left side of the stage an older man sits stiffly on the red velvet couch. It’s immediately obvious this must be one of Gordy’s customers. Someone who probably never expected to talking out a delicate problem with two P.I.’s six feet away from Janine bending over backwards on a pole.

“Mr. Fernuffle, this is my associate Rathe,” says Gordy. I extend a hand and the hefty Neander matches my action. Sparkled rocks and moss, purples and pinks. Marshmallow sweet and goofy. I like him already.

Mr. Fernuffle sizes me up, clearly struggling to place me but deciding I pass his arbitrary test of character. 

“Much appreciated for meeting with me,” he says in a voice that perfectly matches his kindly demeanor. “This is a delicate matter.”

“Our specialty,” says Gordy. Mr. Fernuffle’s arched eyebrow conveys his doubt as to Gordy’s ability to handle anything delicate.

“I used to own a shop,” Mr. Fernuffle says, addressing his comments to me. “Not far from here actually, in what’s known as the theater district.”

“Nice area,” I say.

He nods in agreement. “Small boutique shop with unusual items. It was a favorite of a certain type of hipster, as well as more knowledgeable clientele. We sold incense and crystals and other centering totems.”

“You know we can’t do anything about the store,” I say. “That’s all politics.”

“I know,” he says raising a hand. “Deeply regrettable, but I’m afraid there’s more. In repossessing the store, the city claimed the bulk of my inventory. As I alluded to earlier, this is delicate material.”

His kindly exterior doesn’t waver but a hint of something harder, a little cold, creeps up my skin.

“We’ll need to know what it is we’re dealing with,” I respond. His reticence to talk specifics unnerves me.

“I told you: herbs, incense, and crystals mostly.” He’s telling the truth, but something is missing.

Billy bounds over.

“Mr. Fernuffle! A pleasure! I’m glad I could connect you with our two brightest investigators.”

Billy claps my back heartily. So much for Gordy’s coded message approach.

“Mr. Fernuffle is a well-respected member here,” he says. He can’t possibly mean Fancy, and so there is only one other possibility, and one other meaning associated with his pointed tone. Mr. Fernuffle supports the Resistance, and we will have to help him if we wish to continue receiving free room and board here.

I smile, swallowing my discomfort.

“We had just agreed to take on his case,” I say. Billy’s face relaxes.

“Excellent choice.”

Mr. Fernuffle stands, extending a hand. “Please let me know when you’ve recovered my inventory.”

“Absolutely.”

He vanishes through the crowd of drunk and rowdy customers, short stature invisible between the intermingled group of Sapiens and Dryadalis.

“This is very important,” says Billy in a stern tone. I can’t help but turn sharply with what I know is a suspicious expression.

“What is it?”

“It’s better the less you know,” he says, moving away. I grit my teeth. It’s our asses on the line. Easy for him to say.

“What’s the big deal?” asks Gordy, unperturbed by the tension. “We never know the whole story. That’s the point. We dig it up.”

I shake my head. “You’re right.”

*

Gordy can’t accompany me to the theater district so I’m forced to scout alone while he heads out to a contact for some helpful supplies. Sapiens wander in an out of stores casually. I try to blend in but I feel too conspicuous walking alone. As soon as I enter to feign browsing I am approached by overly helpful salespeople. It’s not conducive to observing the empty lot across the street.

Finally I give up and instead walk in circles around the block, pausing by the abandoned storefront to fumble for gloves or re-tie my shoes. I don’t see much.

It’s a small but charming-looking shop, the removed lettering of “Crystals’ N’ More” just visible by the varying sun bleaching on the paint. All the interior shelves and counters are still present but stripped bare, presumably awaiting a new owner to respond to the “For Lease” sign in the window. Only a small amount of square footage is unaccounted for, suggesting the shop itself does not have enough storage for the amount of inventory Mr. Fernuffle claims has been taken. The city must have moved it elsewhere.

It may just be paranoia but I think a few storeowners are beginning to watch me so I duck around the corner and take the long way back to Fancy. In the quad, Gordy is demonstrating new communication devices he picked up. From across the room, Marcus crouches, eyes squeezed and hands over his ears. Another roommate whispers into the mic.

“Broccoli and cheese!” yells Marcus. The group cheers.

“Seriously?’

“Aw, don’t be a wet blanket,” says Marcus. “You’ll get a turn.”

I roll my eyes and gesture to Gordy.

“I need you pull deed records,” I say. “I want to know who owns the property now, and any other properties they own.”

“Gotcha. But, do you want to try?”

“Maybe later.”

Mr. Fernuffle has helpfully dropped off some additional information I requested, sales from the past month. It’s a long shot but possible someone saw something they wanted to have. It would help if Mr. Fernuffle shared what was so important, but I’ll work with what I’ve got.

Most of the sales seem to be small, one-time deals. The customer appears once and buys a handful of items. A few repeat customers appear on the list, two of whom made substantial purchases. I flag the names for Gordy to look into once he’s finished property records. As if on cue, he knocks.

“Well, it’s not a great answer,” he says by way of intro. “The deed currently belongs to Bank of Port City, but it’s actually holding it in trust for another company; Scrimner, Inc. Their business seems to be the buying and selling of other businesses. Real vultures.”

“So that leaves us nowhere.”

“Eh. Slightly higher than nowhere. Scrimner owns a number of other properties around the city, mostly businesses in transition. I was able to narrow down to a few that seem like possible holding locations.”

“Who is behind Scrimner?”

“Difficult to say. It’s a shielded company, very complex legal structure. Shells within shells.”

I take the list of address from Gordy. “Thanks. Keeping looking into Scrimner. In the meantime, track down what you can about these names. They seem to have an interest in Mr. Fernuffle’s wares.”

It’s chilly but bright outside and I’m glad to have some time to think. Marcus has been surly since the failed attempt to extract memories. I haven’t decided if I feel bad about it or not. They aren’t my memories, it feels a bit like a violation to take them. Marcus has no right to expect it, I’m not even his sister. Genetically I might appear to be, but it’s a fluke of the multiverse. An odd bit of coincidence and convenience.

I pull out the list of addresses again, skimming Gordy’s notes written in looping cursive. I’ll start with the storage unit. It’s the most likely spot to stash a bunch of stuff and the least likely to run into trouble.

The storage house sits on the corner of two busy roads, solid dark brick. The side of the entrance notes the facility can be used as a bomb shelter. A bored but alert guard sits behind the desk.

“Hello, I’m here on behalf of the Scrimner corporation, hoping to check on some inventory.” Truth, brusque curtness, rush, and authority.

“You don’t need to check in, just use your key.”

Crap.

“Well, the issue is, the key has been misplaced.”

He frowns. “You need to go to headquarters for keys. I can’t help you.”

“Please,” I say, pushing cooperation. “I can’t get in trouble for this.”

His resistance breaks down but he’s telling the truth. I’m not getting in this way. He really can’t help.

Now that I realize I’ve wasted a lot of time heading out here the walk frustrates me. I’m crabby and somehow sweaty despite the chill in the air by the time I get downtown to the storage company headquarters.

I exert mental energy as soon as I enter the space. I don’t want to waste any time. The young woman up front is easily swayed.

“I need Scrimner’s key and unit number.” I should try to be nicer. “Please.”

She blushes. “Let me check.” He pink nails click against the keyboard. “One second.” She goes into the back room. I hear the distant clanking of filing cabinets. How quaint. Finally something going smoothly.

A hand grasps my elbow, mustard tang and army green. You have got to be kidding me.

“Rathe Adler. What brings you here?”

Detective Parker looks annoyingly smug. Her hazel eyes dart between my own, sizing up, reading. The clerk returns with terrible timing.

“Here is the key you requested for Scrimner’s unit,” she says brightly. They occupy the seven hundred level, so everything on the seventh flo–”

“Great, thank you,” I say quickly, snatching the key. Detective Parker squeezes my elbow, half dragging me to the side of the door. I eye the traffic and pedestrians outside. My escape.

“Look, I’m flattered that you’re stalking me, but I actually have somewhere to be,” I say, uselessly trying to wiggle out of her iron grip.

“I can tell,” Parker responds. “Breaking into the Scrimner storage unit from the looks of it.”

“Not at all, I’m a P.I. They’ve hired me to look into some things.”

“Such as?”

“Security. It’s not looking great, I can tell you.”

“Right.”

She stares me down and as much as I want to bolt I can’t break the gaze. I won’t back down. Something flickers in her hazel eyes and she drags me a step further from the door.

“Look, I know all about your little side business and while some on the force don’t like it, I personally couldn’t care less. But I have the feeling whatever you’re working on and my case might overlap and so I need you to hand over that key.”

_Is she serious?_ I wait for the punchline. Or the punch.

Oh my gods, she is serious.

“You’re not really my type.”

Her jaw clenches as she moves her hand from my elbow up to my shoulder, forcing me to look her straight in the eye.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” she says. “But right now, your options are to work with me. Or I’ll haul you down to the station and continue this on my own.”

A strange dissociative sensation comes over me. I struggle to grasp onto something physical, concrete so I don’t float away into an untimely vision. Why now?

“Fine,” I say, reaching for the brick wall. The grooves have a soothing grittiness to them. “But I’m returning what rightfully belongs to my client.” Crap. I’ve just revealed my client isn’t Scrimner. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Works for me.”

We sit in silence as Parker navigates the roads with no music, just the gentle static and indecipherable messages on the police scanner. I can feel the key leeching it’s metallic taste into my palm but I’m afraid to let it go. What interest could the police possibly have in Scrimner’s storage unit? And why the subterfuge? Detective Parker should be able to obtain a warrant unless…

“Let me guess,” I say, confidence growing, “there is no police interest here. This is you acting off the book.”

Parker starts, possibly just at the sudden statement. She scoffs, recovering her composure nicely.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she says. “But law enforcement has a valid interest here.”

“Then why no warrant? Why do you need me?”

She bites her bottom lip in concentration. Again I’m impressed at how well she controls her emotional output. She could be focusing on the road or hiding her nerves. I can’t tell.

“If you must know, this is undercover,” she says shortly. “I stopped you back there so you wouldn’t blow my cover to the others there. Happy?”

The muted yellows and greens betray no sign of lying. Her energy spins with plans, predicting hurdles, other matters.

“For now.” The ride continues in silence.

“Perhaps before heading in you can let me know what you know about Scrimner. Share information,” I suggest. Anything to help understand why she’s tagging along.

“They are a privately held corporation in the business of transactions of large amounts of assets,” recites Detective Parker. “I’m investigating whether they are being used to illegally convey certain items.”

She pauses and looks at me pointedly.

“Your turn.”

“That’s all I know too,” I say. She smiles tightly.

The only elevator is a large freight one where we have to pull the protective barrier before moving. It rises with painful slowness. A slight vinegar odor wafts from Detective Parker. She’s sweating. The scent intrigues me, not exactly pleasant but not unpleasant either. I’m tempted to move closer.

She steps out quickly when the doors finally open, releasing a breath. So the impenetrable detective is afraid of closed spaces. This should be fun.

The floor consists of a large square hallway containing units on both in inner and outer walls. A single key slot rests beside each unit. There must be a hundred on this level. We’ll never find it.

Parker steps past me confidently, her eyes tracing something along the mid-line of the wall. I follow her around the first and second bend. She pauses in front of 737.

“Sure you shared all you know?” I ask sarcastically.

“This one,” she responds without acknowledgement.

The clunky key slides in with surprising ease and the metal door rises soundlessly. A cloud of dust wafts up temporarily making my eyes water. The detective’s eyes appear more light than usual in the dimness, almost reflective like a cat. I see nothing beyond some unmarked boxes but Parker proceeds into the mess, inspecting the blank tops of the boxes, all secured with packing tape. She rips one open. The sound cuts through the heavy silence unexpectedly. I peer over her shoulder.

It’s a ton of crap from what I can see. The sort of junk I’d expect in a hippie-dippie mystic shop, but Parker dives in, rummaging past the crystal balls, tarot card sets, and dream catchers. With a hiss of frustration she tears open another box.

“Hey, no need to destroy these. I’m gonna need to haul them out in something.”

“I’m sure your client will help with that,” Parker says absently, rummaging through a third box. She pauses and slowly extracts a hand. In her palm she holds a pale crystal, of indeterminate color in the darkness.  Her fingers wrap around it. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, and carefully replaces it in the box.

She moves back towards the hallway, brushing invisible dust from her pants. The vinegar scent is overwhelming now, drawing me towards her.

“Get what you needed?”

She nods.

The scent intrigues me immensely, an odor combination I can’t quite place, like a forgotten word on the tip of my tongue or a figure just obscured by shadow. I’ll have plenty of time to look through this later. I spin the key back to its upright position. The door closes.

“We good?” she asks.

“I guess.” Truthfully I’m confused. A bit disoriented in this wall-less structure where the presence of Detective Parker somehow feeling comforting.

“Let me drive you back. Where are you living these days?” I’m not sure what to make of her niceness but I am tired and the sooner I get back, the sooner I can close this weird case.

“Um, Fancy. The, uh, strip club, is fine,” I stammer. She raises an eyebrow.

“Spend a lot of time there?”

“I like the atmosphere.”

“And I’m the one without taste.”

Touché. I have no response.

It’s odd being in the car and not feeling irritated with her. Maybe she’s not so bad. She did spend years working on my parent’s case. One of the few that continues to think there was something off about it. But before I can think of a good, thoughtful question, something to maybe change her similar opinion of me, she’s pulled up in front of Fancy’s dingy exterior.

“Better make it quick,” she says. “Wouldn’t want your cool friends thinking you’re tight with a cop.”

“Right,” I say.

She pulls away smoothly and I watch the black car turn and disappear into traffic. That semi-pleasant vinegar scent lingers on my nose before dissipating, too soon. I shake my head. What a weird encounter.

Gordy bolts towards me as soon as I enter.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he asks frantically.

“I didn’t hear it. I bet the warehouse blocked the signal.” My phone shows eight text messages. “What’s up?”

Gordy shakes his head. “You’ll never believe it. Guess who’s behind Scrimner?”

“I don’t know, dude. Shock me.”

“Mayor Townsend,” he says seriously. “Her, and most of City Council also has shares. This is totally a city-backed mission. It confirms the worst.”

“Which is…?”

“That the Mayor wants to clear out all non-Sapiens. That explains why the police and such don’t respond to our calls anymore.”

My gut drops out from under me.

“Oh no,” I breathe.

“Rathe, what?”

I can feel my throat closing, choking me. I grab onto a barstool for support.

Parker.

She played me and I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. Frantically I pat my pockets but I already know it’s gone. I literally walked her into the storage unit and handed her the key. That fucking bitch.


	8. Prince Charming

What is wrong with me?

I can’t stop pacing and I don’t even care that it’s making Gordy nervous.

“I’m gonna go down there right now!” I say.

“Rathe, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so maybe we just think through options,” says Gordy. “What happened? Did you find the stuff?”

“Oh I found,” I respond. “And I lead that goddamn cop right there. Why?!? What was I even thinking??”

“Hey, easy there. We all make mistakes.”

“This isn’t a mistake my friend. No. No, this is a huge colossal fucking disaster!”

I must be yelling for Billy emerges from his office with a look of concern.

“Everything ok?”

I stride over to him.

“No,” I say forcefully. “Everything is not ok. I screwed up and I’ll own it. But you need to share too. I need to know RIGHT NOW what it was in that inventory that is so dangerous.”

Billy steps back, blinking to hide his discomfort.

“Buddy, I’d tell her what she wants to know,” adds Gordy sympathetically. “She gets scary when she’s mad.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” says Billy.

Gordy shakes his head. “This isn’t the half of it.”

Billy’s throat bobs. “Fine,” he says. “Mr. Fernuffle’s shop for years has been a cover for certain…items. Items used to celebrate the advent of adulthood.”

“Speak clearly man, I’m new here.” I grab the collar of his shirt, hiking it up enough to be threatening but not actually uncomfortable.

“Right. They’re totems! They enhance abilities.” I drop my hold on his shirt. Nervously he smooths it down.

“Like Leporem?”

“Exactly. These crystals are known to enhance their ability to charm. They were outlawed years ago due to the influence this allowed.”

“But I thought Leporem were natural charmers?”

“Yes, but they have limits. For one, a person being charmed becomes aware of it later. The crystals amplify the effect. The charm is stronger and the charmee doesn’t realize what’s happened. It’s more akin to yourself and Marcus. It feels organic. Natural.”

“And the Resistance wants these why?”

“Because it’s not just Leporem,” Billy replies. “Leporem are the reason these items, the ritual to select them have been outlawed. But any non-Sapiens can manifest.” His tone changes. “I’m presuming from the bit earlier that they are back in the hands of the Scrimner corporation?”

I hang my head. “Yes, sir. But I’m going to get them back.”

“Get to it then.”

Gordy drives me over to the station. While I head into the precinct for Parker he heads downstairs to check in with Kathryn. Detective Parker isn’t in so I scrawl a note on her Post-It pad.

_This isn’t over._

Before leaving I can’t resist a quick sniff of the back of her chair. Nothing. Embarrassed, I head to the subbasement before anyone can question me.

Gordy sits obligingly on a gurney while Kathryn checks his scar and prods for tenderness. They chat amiably and not wanting to startle her, I wait on the bottom step until she spots me.

“How’s the patient?” I ask.

“Remarkably well for having not gone to the hospital as instructed,” Kathryn replies.

I grin. That cheekiness is new.

“Thanks again. How’s life here?”

Kathryn sighs, stripping off her gloves and replacing them with a clean pair.

“The usual.” She gestures. “Got a corpse over there that you can look at if interested.”

“Why?” I ask curiously.

“Because the police won’t. She’s Dryadalis.”

Gordy’s face pales.

Kathryn moves to the body indicated, pulling back the sheet and gently stroking the face. The pale skin, even with the extensive bruising and split lip, is undeniably beautiful.

“It’s sad,” she says. “I’ve seen her before. Up in the lobby. Never bruising this badly though. But it figures it would end this way.”

“Do you know her name?”

“There’s probably a wallet in her personal effects.” Kathryn retrieves a clear plastic bag, pulling out the sparkled wallet. “Andrea Tristis.”

“I know that name,” says Gordy sadly from across the room. “I went to high school with her. Not that she would have known that. She was super-popular and I…ran in different circles.”

I examine the license. Until Parker returns I don’t have a lead on the crystals. And I sure as hell have some energy to burn.

“Let’s go Gordy. We’re gonna find the fucker that did this.”

Gordy hops of the gurney.

“Later Kat,” he calls. She waves, sad smile on her face as she looks at the cold face of Andrea Tristis.

We pull up to the Spaghetti Hut. A cheery host greets up.

“Table for two?” she says brightly, trying to not stare at Gordy.

“Actually, we’d like to speak to the manager,” I say. “Port City Police. It’s about one of your employees.”

“Oh my gosh, I’ll go get her.” She bolts to the back as Gordy’s stomach rumbles.

“A table would have been nice,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, if you’re paying,” I retort. That shuts him up.

The manager follows the host out of the kitchen, barely older than me.

“Is there an issue?” she asks, not quite as pleasantly as the host.

“Perhaps we could talk in the back.”

“Of course.”

The manager’s office is tiny and Gordy has to squeeze through the door. The hodge-podge of photos and calendars indicates this space is shared by at least three people.

“So one of my employees is in trouble?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “Amanda Tristis. Do you know her?” The manager’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Amanda? Yeah, she’s the weekday evening manager. She’s great.” The manager looks between us.

I clear my throat, calling up soothing energy. This part never gets easier. “I’m afraid she’s been killed. I’m hoping you can help us with some questions.”

Her hand involuntarily rises to her mouth to block a choked gasp. Her brown eyes darken.

“It’s that scumbag boyfriend,” she says darkly. “Amanda was the best, sweetest creature ever. Everyone here loves…loved her. But she’d show up from time to time with these bruises that even makeup couldn’t hide.”

The manager suppresses a gulping sob.

“Everyone knew. But she said she loved him. That she could never leave him, and not from fear or anything. She was completely smitten. I can’t believe it.”

“Do you know if they were living together?”

The manager nods. She needs a cry. A real one without an audience. I rise.

“Thank you.” Gordy stands with surprise. I have to drag him from the room.

“That’s it?” he says.

“That’s it. Let’s go find this guy.”

“You really think it’s that simple?” he asks.

I turn to face him, letting him feel the full depth of my anger.

“I do,” I say. “Sometimes, in fact most times, when a douche boyfriend beats his girlfriend and she ends up dead, the abuser is also the killer.”

“Alright,” says Gordy, jogging to catch up. “But what are we going to do? You don’t exactly have a license to kill. Nor do we have a prison lying around.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

The address the manager provided is the same as the one on Andrea’s license. It’s a cute, modest one-story home. White paint with yellow trim. A small garden out front that someone clearly spend time on. I force myself to concentrate before barging up to the door. Someone is home. Jumpy. Feeling sorry for himself. This is definitely the right place.

I knock loudly at the door. I expect him to run away, but feel his energy growing stronger as he moves towards the door. It swings open. He’s generically good-looking with scruff and bagged eyes that suggest a rough 24 hours or so. His posture straightens somewhat at the sight of strangers.

“What do you want?”

“Do you live here with Andrea Tristis?” I ask.

“What’s it to you?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. So I suppose you’re already aware she’d dead.”

He blinks rapidly.

“Are you cops?” He glances at us with squinted eyes, staring pointedly at Gordy. “You don’t look like cops.”

I don’t respond. His tight expression relaxes, widening into a smile.

“Why don’t you stop wasting my time,” he says. “Andrea left and if she got herself killed I had nothing to do with it. She wasn’t here.”

The door shuts in our faces.

“Well that didn’t go awesome,” remarks Gordy. My heart pounds painfully against my ribcage. I froze. Back at the morgue a woman is dead and I couldn’t even touch the man who basically admitted to killing her. As much as it pains me, I need Detective Parker’s help.

I drop Gordy off at Fancy so he can get some work done while I return to the station. Detective Parker doesn’t notice my approach until I punch a fist onto her desk. She starts.

“Awfully conspicuous place to be for someone undercover,” I say. She shrugs, leaning back in her chair. Overly casual to compensate for her surprise.

“Tell me you’ve never lied to me,” she retorts. “I assume you’re here to convince me to return the key? A bold choice.” She gestures to the dozen or so plainclothes and uniformed police that chat and move about.

“Actually no,” I say. “I need your help.” I don’t know which of us is more surprised to hear those words pass my lips. I bite the corner of my mouth. I’ve dangerously overplayed my hand here and I need her to come out on the limb with me.

“Well now I’m curious.” Her hazel eyes sparkle. It’s the closest I’ve seen her come to something other than completely serious. The next thing I say will make or break it.

“I’ve got a man who beat his girlfriend to death.” Parker’s eyes narrow and at least I know she’s emotionally on the same page.

“The police will handle it,” she says.

“That’s the problem. The woman. She’s Dryadalis.” Parker pauses. “But the way I see it, there’s an obligation to pursue, regardless of policy.”

“Why is that?” she asks carefully.

“Because today it was a Dryadalis woman. But tomorrow…? I’m guessing you have a pretty good idea how these kinds of people operate. And when it’s a Sapiens, someone is going to want to know why the cops ignored the warning signs.”

She shifts in her chair. I suppress my smile. When she agrees I want her to believe this is a favor to me, not something she was already on board with.

“It’s a tough call to make with the captain,” she hedges.

“I know,” I say sympathetically. She studies me.

“Alright,” she says. “This is a favor.”

“I won’t forget it.”

“Good,” she says. She spins towards her computer, clacking at the keys. “Now, who is this woman and the guy?”

Detective Parker pulls up all the info Gordy and I have already been through, but I pretend to listen with interest as she walks through everything. She frowns as she reads through internal records.

“Seems Andrea came by half a dozen times over the past year citing abuse,” she says. “Even filed charges a few times, but always came back the next day insisting they be dropped.”

Parker’s frown intensifies. “I’ll never understand women who keep going back,” she says. “Seems a number of officers here would agree with your argument that he was a capital offense waiting to happen.”

She stands. “Think I’ll pay this guy a visit. She’s not around to drop the charges this time. No escape.”

“Great,” I say, standing too.

Her dismissiveness wavers. “Stay out of the way,” she says. “This is a courtesy only.”

The little white house with yellow trim looks oddly cheery in the sunlight. A striking contrast to the reason for our visit. Parker quickly double checks the address and steps out of the car. I follow. Detective Parker freezes, looking at me sharply.

“Where are you going?”

“Up to the…” Wait. I can’t have the boyfriend recognizing me. “You’re right,” I say. “I’ll just stay in the car.”

“Please,” she responds humorlessly.

Detective Parker makes her way up the path to the door, knocking firmly as she idly glances through the closest window. She leans her head near the door, knocking again. I see her mouth move. The door opens a crack. Through the visible sliver someone chats with the detective, but I can’t see enough to know if it’s the boyfriend or someone else.

Detective Parker crosses her arms, gesturing occasionally. She uncrosses her arms, taking a half-step back, her body language shifting entirely from assertive to defensive. She nods quickly and retreats. The car door slams behind her before I can process what might have happened.

“Let’s go,” she says, turning the key in the ignition.

“Wait, what? We can’t just leave. You’re letting him get away with it??”

Parker shakes her head tightly. “It’s not worth it.”

“But what about the next woman?” I explode. “You’re honestly saying you’ll turn a blind eye.”

“He’s Leporem,” Detective Parker blurts. She breathes heavily. “We don’t get involved.”

“That’s bullshit,” I say, reaching for the wheel and tugging. The car swerves right, and Parker hits the brakes, bringing us to an abrupt stop on the shoulder.

“If he’s Leporem, that’s all the more reason to get him,” I say hotly. “If they’re such a menace, you have an obligation to get him off the street.”

Parker’s aura glows agitated neons of her usual muted shades. Something about the Leporem must really freak her out.

“Hey.” I touch her gently on the sleeve, calm, centeredness, and strength. “It doesn’t have to be you,” I say softly. “I get it if you’ve had a bad experience. But someone…” Slowly the highlighter in her aura dissipates, breathing slows to normal. Finally she nods.

“Ok.” There is a hint of resignation in her voice. As she restarts the car and drive us back to the station I can’t help but wonder what hurt her in the past.

As I follow her in she shoots me a look of irritation.

“What are you my shadow?”

“I need to see this through.” She clenches her teeth in a smile and gestures to her chair. I watch as she approaches another officer, handing him a file. She returns to the desk, dragging her feet reluctantly.

“Not so hard, huh?”

“Please go,” she says.

“It’s not finished.”

“It’s handled,” she replies, a little loudly. She lowers her voice. “If you don’t see the arrest in tomorrow morning’s paper, come back. Otherwise, I sincerely hope I don’t see you again.”

I hop to my feet. I’ve gotten what I came for.

“Thanks Parker,” I say.

“It’s Detective,” she replies tensely.

I smile. “You’re a peach.”

I wait until I’m safely away from the police station and sure I’m not being followed to check my pocket. There, tucked away between receipts and scraps of paper with notes, is the storage unit key. I search the crumbled notes until I find the one with a phone number.

“Mr. Fernuffle,” I say into my phone. “This is Rathe. I’ve located your inventory, but I recommend we retrieve it soon.”

Gordy and Marcus meet me at the storage center, Mr. Fernuffle arrives shortly after in a large rental truck. The storage unit appears untouched since Parker and I checked it out. Mr. Fernuffle looks with questioning eyes at the two open boxes. Two.

_Fuck_.

Parker opened three. The final one she opened left a gap that I cannot raw my eyes away from.

“Just, uh, needed to verify this was the right unit,” I say.

“It’ll take some time to go through all this,” he says. “But this seems like it’s probably everything.”

He extends a sturdy hand.

“Thank you for your assistance Rathe. It won’t be forgotten.”

“Sure,” I say. I twinge of discomfort knots in my gut. Marc and Gordy load the boxes onto dollies. Mr. Fernuffle directs them in loading the truck. I wipe down the unit to remove any finger prints, leaving the ley in the keyhole. I have no further need of it.

Truck loaded, Mr. Fernuffle gives a wave from the raised front seat. The rental bounces down the uneven street before he turns into the flow of traffic. I feel slightly sick to my stomach. Marc rustles my hair.

“Why are you worried?” he asks quietly. I shake my head. The image of the boyfriend, a Leporem and Andrea Tristis, pale skin and purple lips on the hard metal gurney runs through my mind. My hand feels as cold as hers must be.

“I met one today. A Leporem. They’re dangerous Marcus. Are we sure we want to work with them? Maybe the city is right to keep their abilities at a minimum.”

His eyes deepen in color briefly, hints of pale purple etched against silver.

“I don’t know,” he says helplessly.

*

Rarely have I needed to relax as much as I do that night. This Resistance nonsense, the brutality of Andrea’s death, the odd feeling I have over Mr. Fernuffle’s job… I sit at Marcus’s bar and let him pour me glass after glass of wine until the room is a pleasant fuzzy color, wafting with energy that I can no longer distinguish or separate between individuals. Marcus easily makes small talk and flirts with other customers of all genders, flipping his light brown curls back when particularly engaged. He spins around the other bartender on this side smoothly, mixing drinks and taking orders as if it were a dance. Effortlessly he gives customers what they need. More than drinks, but confidence, a dash of reality, grandiosity, or distance from a painful memory. My eyes tear with misplaced pride.

“That’s my brother,” I say to the customer next to me.

“I know.”

I jump at the familiar voice. Parker firmly grabs my glass, preventing it from knocking over.

“Rathe Adler,” she says. Through the drunken haze she’s difficult to place, blending in with oranges and blues and browns and reds of the other auras, her muted tones too easily overpowered.

“I had a feeling you’d be here.” She flags Marcus. “Red,” she says.

“The good stuff or house?”

“Whatever she’s having.”

Marcus grins. “The good stuff it is,” he says obligingly. Gracefully he spins to the counter, seeming to grab the glass, pour the wine, and complete the turn back to the bar in a single, uninterrupted move.

I sit sullenly as she sips. Even my buzz has gone sour.

“I thought you never wanted to see me again,” I say to the waves of red-purple liquid swirling in the glass.

“I don’t. But you took something of mine and I want it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is it?” she asks icily.

“I don’t have it.”

We sip in tandem, Marcus tops her up. She doesn’t question me further, or in fact speak at all. I study the etched marks in the bar and the way the light reflects off the mirrored wall with liquor onto the shiny wood. Parker is still beside me, lightly tapping the bottom of her glass in time to the music as she watches the hubbub of the club heating up.

She’s pretty, in a way. Kind of a limp, mousey look, especially the thin hair pulled into a ponytail, but nice jawline and interesting eyes. Her nose hooks to a left a touch, an asymmetry that contributes to the stern, serious look she so often sports. Right now she holds her face neutrally, jaw relaxed, mouth slightly parted. Bags darken the undersides of her eyes.

I feel her watching me. I rake my fingers through my hair a bit self-consciously. I must be a mess. Parker downs the rest of her wine and stands, placing a hand on my shoulder.

The unexpected contact after our long silence-off startles me. Through the haze of vague circulating auras her mustard yellow bursts through, glowing brightly, but without the panic from earlier. She’s tipsy, tired, confused, resigned.

“Till next time Adler,” she whispers, the alcohol on her breath wafting past my nose. “I’ll be watching you closely.”

“You might want to call a cab Parker.”

“I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t really.” I turn back to the bar, but I feel her exit as the vivid, sharp mustard aroma and color fades until I can no longer find it in the crowd.

I’m fairly tipsy myself, so with a wave to Marcus, I head off for some much-needed sleep.

Blearily the next morning I pull up the news on my computer, skipping to the crime section. It’s the third article down, but as promised, a mug shot of the Leporem is there, the caption efficiently stating “Charge: Murder.” The article is short and includes a blurry photo of Andrea. She’s laughing, arms slung around two girlfriends. I close the laptop, head throbbing from all the wine the night before. How about that. Parker came through after all.

Knock at the door. It opens and Marcus peers in. How the hell is he up this early, much less wide awake?

“You up?” he asks.

“Even if I wasn’t, I am now.”

“Cool,” says Marcus. “Billy said you should swing by his office this morning. He’s got something for you.”

Groaning I pull on a pair of pants. But the intrigue of Marcus’s message does good work in sobering me up. I swing by the kitchen for a quick cup of tea before stopping by.

“Ah, Rathe,” says Billy. He stands and slides aside a stack of receipts. “I heard from Mr. Fernuffle earlier today. He wanted to pass along his thanks for the recovery of his items.”

“Sure,” I say.

That’s it? I regret having rushed.

Billy clears his throat. “Marcus, um, tells me you’ve been…expanding in your abilities,” he says.

“No need for the euphemisms,” I reply.

“Right. Well, some people can be sensitive. Anyways, Mr. Fernuffle had a number of mystical items in his possession that have been known to enhance similar abilities.”

I listen carefully. From behind the desk Billy extracts a box, approximately six inches in all directions.

“As a token of his gratitude he asked that I provide you with this. I’m not sure what it is, but he seemed to think it might be of value.”

The box is light and makes only a slight rustling sound as I take it from Billy.

“Thanks.”

Billy pulls the pile of receipts back. Awkwardly I leave with the nondescript box. I feel like I should wait until I’m back in the room to open it but I’m curious.

White gift paper lines the inside, obscuring the item itself. At the very bottom, wrapped tightly in the tissue paper lays a single perfectly clear, smooth stone. I set the box aside. The ovular shape contains a groove on one side akin to a buckeye, a smooth divot that begs to be touched. I do, gently letting my thumb press into the natural depression. The clear stone changes in color, energy filling its core, greens, and blues, and orange, scents and textures from worlds away, some known, some not. I set the box aside and pocket the stone. It fits smoothly against the natural fold of my hand, slipping and rotating easily with my grasp but always returning to its natural place. It feels like mine, not just now, but that it’s always been mine.

Understanding grips me. I know what I need to do.


	9. History of You

“You have to swear you’ll be nice,” I say. Marcus smirks.

“I’m always nice.”

“You were…difficult last time,” I say. “Kathryn is sensitive.”

“I get it. I’ll be nice,” he says in a particularly put-upon tone.

“If it’s that difficult you can always stay here.”

“I want to go,” he replies, a little too quickly.

Kathryn has set up the corner of the morgue to have a bit more privacy than usual, with a jerry-rigged curtain providing a shield to prying eyes in the window.

“Just in case someone walks in,” she explains. “Not that people usually do, because, well, I guess they find the idea of dead bodies creepy.”

“But not you,” grins Marcus. I smack him in the back of the head. Kathryn ducks her head to hide a smile. I catch Marcus winking and threaten a second smack with a raised hand.

Kathryn fusses about me as she sets up the equipment, taping small electrodes to my scalp and chest. As she leans over I notice she’s wearing makeup, a modest lip color and light blush. Marcus holds my hand, watching her work, and despite explicit instructions, being difficult with respect to staying out of her way, as if making a concerted effort to always stand slightly closer than necessary. Each time Kathryn flusters before powering through, moving into his space in order to complete her work. Finally she steps back, taking in the entire set-up.

“Are you ready?” she asks me.

I reach into my pocket for the cool stone, feeling it warm in my palm.

“Rock’n’roll.”

Kathryn nods. “I’m going to give you a light sedative first to lessen the shock. It should feel like lucid dreaming.”

The ball of anxiety in my throat is beginning to expand. For once I want to know less about what is happening and for it to just happen. I can tell when the sedative reaches my bloodstream for the harsh lights dim into a soft pink and the cloth between my body and the gurney softens into a cotton fuzz. The stone warms and heats and focusing on that heat I scarcely feel the first shot of electricity against my skin.

*

My parents are already waiting in the car. For now they are patient, but it won’t last long, a few more minutes and we will be late, and lateness cannot be tolerated. Lateness is a sign that you don’t respect others, my father would say. It’s robbery, except to steal time from another is worth than the stealing of material items, for time can never be replaced. Not once in his five years on the City Council has my father been late to a speech or event. He’s not about to start now.

Not that Marcus cares about Ethar Adler’s impeccable punctuality. I haven’t shielded myself well enough and he knows. Doesn’t _know_ know. But knows something’s off. If my parents can tell they haven’t let on. I haven’t broken the rules, technically. I didn’t tell anyone. It’s hardly my fault if my family members possess the innate ability to sense how I feel.

“I’ll see you soon,” I say to my baby brother. A lie.

“Promise?”

“Yes.” Another one. It doesn’t get any easier.

“Here.” I sling my jacket from my shoulders. It took me six months of hoarding every penny I made working in the school library to buy this. My most prized possession. Soft, supple leather with a braid falling over the shoulder. I look damn good in that jacket. This is the closest I can come to telling him. It’s something tangible that will outlive me, a thought I wish I hadn’t articulated quite so clearly.

“Rathe…” calls my father warningly.

I kiss Marcus on his forehead. I’m taller but next time we meet he will be. Only by an inch or two though.

“Be brave little brother,” I whisper as I step into the car. He looks small with the jacket wrapped around his torso.

The seatbelt cuts into my shoulder and I realize how soft and delicate this human form is. My father pulls away, caching my eye quickly in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “The war is long, and today is but one battle.” I’m afraid to ask if he means his speech, or what comes after.

*

Rathe’s body twitches, her mouth forming unspoken words.

“Do you think she’s alright?” I ask. Kathryn glances at me, looking away too quickly for that direct connection to be made to her stunning dark eyes. My sister’s agitated state concerns me, but truthfully it’s a second to the desire to spend some time alone with this fantastically intriguing creature.

“This is all normal,” she responds hesitantly.

Beauty and brains.

Her heart beats through her chest in shades of gray that ripple through the room. My sister, a mist, shimmers intangible, unearthly, and distant. Even more so than usual. She’s a ghost of the sister I knew, the one that smelled of chocolate and coconut, the one that teased me mercilessly and yet taught me most of what I still know today about women. Sometimes I catch the scent of her, my pre-coma sister that is, in the leather jacket she gave me. Her final gift, save the one where she comes back from the dead.

Water fills my eye and I blink it away. Girls never want to see you cry, Rathe would tell me. But I’m beginning to think Rathe may not know everything, for Kathryn catches my moment and the hard but fragile eggshell that surrounds her softens momentarily. Perhaps I should lean into the cry. Win some sympathy. But the moment has passed. Kathryn studies the squiggled waves on the monitors, preparing to administer a second shock.

Rathe’s body twitches again, involuntary muscle contractions making her appear awake but uncoordinated, like a zombie. Heh. She’d hate that I called her a zombie, although accurate. She does refuse to stay dead, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

What would Rathe say if she saw me sitting here, so unsure of what to say or how to act? I don’t know and so I don’t do anything other than what I promised. I hold my sister’s hand, try to think positive thoughts, and despite what she might think, try to stay out of the way.

*

We are one minute early to the rally and waste no time making our way backstage. The crowd heaves and sways in a mass of all shapes and colors; long, and squat, light and dark, eyes that bespeak mystical skill and those that have yet to or possibly can’t. The Dryadalis band rouses the crowd even further with its melody. It’s cheerful but I hear only the melancholy, the last people on earth watching the incoming meteor and knowing it’s so beautiful but also the last thing they will ever see in the world or in life, the end of life itself. The song bends and twists reality until I’m back in the car we just left, only this time it’s dark and I know what is going to happen. It’s too much to take. I’m terrified to die and I can’t move, so afraid that in the end it’s nothing but ugliness and pain and not the beauty the song promises…

Calm rushes through my body, the soothing touch of Leporem, easing me from the pressures of my own mind.

“Hon, are you ok?” The lights overhead shine directly into my face, meaning I’ve somehow ended up on the floor. The Leporem holds my head gently, peering into my eyes.

“No dilation,” he tells my mother, who stands just behind him, hand clutched to her heart. “Have you had anything to eat or drink recently?” he asks me. His voice vibrates through my bones with gentle urging and the soft scent of rose petals. I shake my head.

“I’m going to guess low blood sugar,” he says. He gently extends the charm to my mother and she calms visibly.

“Can we please get some food for the younger Ms. Adler,” the apparent doctor calls. He helps me into an upright seated position. Other than feeling dizzy, my overwhelming sensation is one of embarrassment. My mother replaces him, supporting me as if I had no bones in my body at all.

“It was just a dizzy spell,” I say.

“What happened? I saw you sway and then just fall.”

I close my eyes. I desperately want to tell someone. It’s been weighing on me since I first saw the vision four days ago. Though it’s far from my first vision.

“I know something about tonight that I shouldn’t,” I say. “I’ve been seeing things, and at first I thought I was dreaming, but then they happened.”

“How long?” my mother asks quietly.

“Not long. Since chrysalis.” She stares at me. “You manifested.” It’s a statement strikingly devoid of any emotion. Her head shakes.

“That’s not possible,” she says. “I’m Sapiens, and your father…”

“I know, I’m not one of the human species that should react. But I have somehow. I’m certain of this. More certain than I am of anything in my life.”

My mother stares at me, green eyes shining and wide. Her hands frame my face.

“When you were born, I knew you were special,” she says. “Whatever it is, you must accept it.”

“What? No!” I grip her hand tightly, feeling the low pulse beneath my fingers. “We’re going to die,” I whisper roughly.

“Alright, I’ve got some cookies, a bag of chips, and a peanut butter sandwich,” says a volunteer. “What sounds best?”

Numbly I reach for the sandwich. My mother shakes her head.

“You can’t stop destiny, Rathe. If it is to be, we must believe there is a reason.” She leans forward and kisses my forehead.

“I hope you know I love you very much.”

*

The long silence makes me restless. It’s too quiet. Rathe seems to have settled into some kind of stable pattern, so Kathryn moves between her and the dead patients in her queue.

“Mrs. Henderson,” she says softly, flipping through a clipboard. “What happened to you?”

“Do you talk to all of your patients?” I ask. She looks up in surprise. Figures. It’s the first thing she’s said in twenty minutes. Probably forgot I was here. “Or just the really chatty ones?” I add.

“Sorry. I can be quiet–”

“It was a joke. Not a very good one, obviously.”

She laughs awkwardly, with heavy breathing that seems it could easily devolve into snorting. I make it my goal to get a snort-laugh out of her before leaving.

“So do you?” I continue.

“Um, I…I guess sometimes?”

“You seem unsure.”

“Well I suppose I don’t pay much attention. I don’t usually notice if I’m talking out loud or in my head.”

“What do you talk about out loud or in your head?”

“It’s stupid,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay quiet.”

“I’m sure it’s not stupid,” I say. “But if you want to chat with just Mrs. Henderson, I’m happy to cover my ears.”

Playfully I grin and feign squeezing my palms over my ears. The delightful chortle of her snort-laugh is only partially obscured and every bit as wonderful as I imagined it would be.

*

I’m more nervous than I should be for the Transformation. For all its hype and the weirdly vague yet official-sounding title it’s a surprisingly mundane affair. These days, the Transformation is treated as an annoyance, an administrative issue by many families, which is their loss more than anything according to my father.

According to him, today’s “modern humans” opt to forgo the ancient rites that accompany the transition from child to adulthood, focusing on the paperwork over spiritual transformation and acceptance. Sacrilege. Although I have only his word on that.

We head down to City Hall promptly on my eighteenth birthday to complete the necessary paperwork. Technically this is all the Transformation, but the important part, the one I have prepared for and the one that fills my gut with crawling insects, has been relegated to a checkbox at the bottom of one of the many forms.

_Do you wish to undergo chrysalis?_

Carefully I check the box next to “Yes.”

The attendant doesn’t seem to care much either way, flipping through the forms with a practiced eye that immediately pinpoints anything I’ve missed. Date here. Initial there. Finally, I sigh the last form as he observes. He stamps the blank space below my signature, writing in his official ID. With the first bit of life I’ve seen in him since arriving he smiles.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“Not yet,” interrupts my father.

“Right,” he corrects, noting the checkbox. Swell. A modern. My father bristles. “It’s at the end of the hall,” he says.

My father guides me down the hall and we knock on the dark oak door. It opens from the inside. The room is from another time, another world even, stretching impossibly high to the sky, trees growing through the floor still not making contact with the endless ceiling. The floor is covered with a lush green carpet, or maybe moss, and lighting is provided by skylights and hundreds of glowing bugs that flit through the air.

A woman neither old nor young smiles from a cross-legged position of mediation and gestures me forward. My father stands back, leaving me to approach alone.

“Do you understand the nature of chrysalis?” my Guide asks.

“I do.”

“Good. Nonetheless, I am required by law to explain it,” she adds wryly. “Chrysalis marks the transition from childhood to adulthood, a blossoming and coming into your own power. The nature of your power will vary. Some humans manifest substantial changes, others none at all. However, upon going through the ritual, any effects cannot be reversed. You may not receive the gift you desire, or any gift at all. Do you understand this, Rathe?”

I swallow, reciting the words my parents had me memorize.

“I accept that the will of the gods shall be done and that I, Rathe Adler, shall not attempt to thwart their will. I am their vessel.”

My father nods seriously, the barest hint of a smile visible to one who knows him well at my perfect recitation. My Guide smiles, pleased.

“You’ve been well prepared,” she says. “Rathe Adler, you shall retreat into the fey wild until such time as you find your token. That item shall be yours forever, and is the only thing which may be removed from this space.”

I nod in acknowledgement, throat suddenly very dry.

“Welcome,” she says, extending a hand to the mystical world that somehow exists just beyond the dull government office doorway.

*

Kathryn self-consciously slaps a hand over her nose and mouth, her face reddening. I brush a nonexistent hair from Rathe’s face, pretending to not notice her embarrassment. The bright red flush fades slowly over the next several minutes while she continues her examination of Mrs. Henderson. I may have pressed my luck a bit too much with the snort.

After another lengthy silence, Kathryn returns to check on Rathe’s status. She crosses to the opposite side of the gurney, ensuring the electrodes remain in good contact with the skin. There is a pause, a hesitation and she crosses to my side, not waiting for me to move. Calm demeanor not betraying her nervousness inside, she checks the remaining wires near me. I smell oranges and brown sugar. Her boldness suggests we can continue to play this game. She’s not an unwilling partner to my flirtation.

I follow her back, taking care to keep a few feet of distance, not to mention the substantial girth of the late Mrs. Henderson between us.

“You figured out her story yet?” I ask. The overweight corpse no longer even resembles a person. Her front splays out in all directions, and what is visible of the inside is either a mess or red or empty cavities that used to house vital organs. Strangely, it’s not at all gross, but a fascinating mix of biology and mechanics.

“I don’t know her story,” Kathryn replies. “I only determine the ending.”

“If you had to guess,” I say. “What would her story be?”

Kathryn laughs quickly, taking care I note to keep well away from snorting.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Alright, I’ll go,” I say. Mentally I rewrap the corpse on the table, imagining her cheeks with color and limbs with movement.

“The late, great, Mrs. Henderson was a ballerina sky diver, known for her astonishing feats of daring and thousand-foot pirouettes.”

“Skydiving ballet is definitely not a thing,” interjects Kathryn.

“–Mrs. Henderson was driven to be the best, and convinced that she and she alone could master the dreaded decoflip-two-thousand-degree twist–”

“Why five and a half twists?”

“–and so on the morning of such-and-such Mrs. Henderson took to the skies and when the moment was right, flung herself from the plane, perfectly executing ten flips and five and half twists before landing safely, and retiring forever.” I pause dramatically, lowering my gaze. “Today, the gods of skydiving ballet weep,” I whisper.

Kathryn snorts again, but this time there is no hand covering the mouth or flush of embarrassment.

“Who are you?” she asks with a laugh.

“Marc,” I say. “Or Marcus.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well Marcus is what my parents called me. It’s what Rathe calls me. Everyone else calls me Marc.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Marc.”

“Marcus,” she says, letting the syllables roll around on her tongue.

I grin. I really like this girl.

*

The contours of the room drop away the further I extend into the enchanted space, until it feels as if I am walking in another world. In a sense I am, one of the last places on earth that houses pure, unadulterated magic. Magic which, if I am worthy, I may share a piece. The ritual is frustratingly vague, a thought I haven’t lingered on until being set to wander the fey wilds.

I’ve seen my mother’s token, a pressed flower she keeps in a locket. Like many who emerge from chrysalis with no discernible abilities, my mother faithfully keeps her token safe, and speaks glowingly of her Transformation experience as if it truly did transform her. Ironically those that manifest tend to say less, but that is of no concern to me.

My feet bounce in the springy moss as I move deeper into the forest, relying more on the glow of the insects than natural light. The colors create symphonies of sound unlike any I’ve ever heard, the air tastes of exotic foods and freedom.

An insect alights on my nose, it’s tail glowing in pink and purple. I freeze, not wanting to scare the creature. It rises and lands again. The next time it flies I take a step after it. Following thusly, we descend into a steep ravine. My feet slip in the wet mud and I must use the trees that grow at odd angles for support to inelegantly clamber down. The base is narrow and largely occupied by a clear stream that flows quickly over navy and silver stones. Without warning my lightning bug guide vanishes.

It’s not all dark, but dimly lit by the bioluminescent plants that line the edges of the swift creek. I dip my hands in the water, shuddering as the ice-cold water numbs my fingers. The air is heavy and thick, humid and chilly, dry and warm all at once. I hold my breath for a second, and in that a single solitary second, all is perfect silence. Not an insect or plant moves, I can’t even hear my own heartbeat. Leaves rustle and moment is gone, but in my soul I feel that silence, the emptiness, become a part of me. There is a space carved out for the space I will need in the years to come.

I dip my hand again. It’s refreshingly chill and I let the water run through my hair and down my face. Maybe this is it? I take a plant from the edge of the creek and return? The squat leafy flowers glow dully. A noise from across the creek interrupts my study of which I like most.

“Water as the symbol of life and change,” says the voice. “How original.”

The face is mine but the hair and attitude decidedly different. She’s rough and jagged where I’ve been trained to be polished. Dirt mars her cheek and her hair sticks up in all directions like an untamed cat, cornered in an alley. She moves with a grace that contrasts with her rough appearance.

“Who are you?” I’m more curious than anything. It makes complete sense. Who better to explain what’s to come than myself? But why such an alternative version?

“The better question is who are you?” Rhetorical. But I’ll answer anyways.

“Rathe Adler.”

My twin snorts. “You wish. But regardless that’s just a name.”

She’s right. I need to go deeper.

“I…” Words escape me. Without my family name I’m not sure how to define myself. “I’m a work in progress,” I say.

She laughs. “Better.” Gracefully she skips her way over the creek, landing by my side. I’m startled by the physical realness of her, the way she moves the air, how I can feel the space she occupies. She’s something more than a mere projection. She hands me a rock.

It’s an ordinary rock with rough edges and dirt caked into the side. Dark grey with flecks that seem as if they might sparkle under enough light, but in the end, just a rock.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from the vineyard,” she says, as if that offers any kind of explanation. “It’s something you’ll recognize later, when all of this feels far away.” She looks around, for once not seeming irritated but awed.

“Do you like it here?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing,” I say.

“I’ll make sure they send you back,” she says. Her form lightens, like a fog breaking, the colors and edges becoming soft and separating until there is just mist. The mist blows down the creek and over the edge of the ravine.

Slowly I turn to the rock. The dark gray comes away in my hands, as if it had been painted recently. I brush the rough surface, loosening dirt and debris until I reach the smooth pebble beneath. Dipping it into the creek, I finally see what I’ve been given. Perfectly palm-sized, immaculately clear, the stone reflects the low light of the ravine. I don’t know what it is exactly. Just a rock with usual color perhaps. But I feel implicitly that this is mine. That it’s been waiting for me. My journey is over.


	10. Magic in the Air

Now that I know what this stone is, I feel my strength growing with every vision, although they are no less controllable, arriving unexpectedly in flashes of color and dropping odd hints or memories in my lap that distract me for hours.

“It’s been a good week,” says Marcus with a grin. “I think we should all celebrate.”

Gordy lounges over the couch tapping away at his laptop, but his gaze suggests the focus of his attention is a game more than work.

“I’m in,” he says. “The usual?”

“Seriously dude?” says Marcus. “I work here. I’m not hanging out at my workplace to blow off steam.”

Grody shrugs. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Plus,” Marcus continues with a blush that goes unnoticed by Gordy, “there’s, uh, someone I wanted to include and she doesn’t get out much.”

I raise an eyebrow. So that’s where he’s been zipping off to after his shift ends, and slinking in at seven in the morning. Marcus’s meaning seems to have alluded Gordy who frowns at the screen in concentration.

“Sure, sure,” he says absently.

“Awesome. We’ll head out at ten.”

It’s odd to be leaving the club just as things are heating up, but I could use the change of scene. We stroll past the waiting line of patrons casually and they gape. Gordy vibrates with excitement and it’s contagious. His mood turns as we leave the red light district and dips even further when Marcus stops in front of the police station, taking an eager breath before turning to check our progress.

Gordy points a long, delicate finger.

“No.”

Marcus’s face falls. “Com’on,” he pleads. “It’s Kathryn’s birthday and I wanted to surprise her. You’re the only people that get it.”

Helplessly Gordy drops the accusing finger, his resignation requiring no empathic ability.

“Fine. But only because I like Kathryn. This was a nasty trick.”

“You wouldn’t have come if you had known.”

Probably true in Gordy’s case. He mutters something indecipherable under his breath.

We’re fairly conspicuous in our evening duds so enter one by one, Marcus, then Gordy, then me. By the time I arrive in the morgue, Kathryn is already beaming and Marcus has a bottle of sparkling grape juice open, pouring tasters into the small paper cups by the water dispenser. He hands me one with a grin, raising his own.

Loudly he sings happy birthday, Gordy and I joining in. Kathryn blushes bright red. As he finishes, Marcus tips back his cup, leans forward and gently kisses Kathryn on the cheek. I’m certain I’ve never seen a human turn such a bright shade. I feel her heart flutter as if it were in my chest. Gordy’s jaw drops.

“Stop staring,” I say to him with a shove. Gordy half-turns from the couple but gives Marcus an obvious thumbs up.

“Thanks everyone,” says Kathryn, recovering her composure. Her eyes flutter to Marcus and hold his gaze. “This is the best birthday ever.”

“We’re just getting started,” says Marcus. “Later there will be cake.”

Kathryn squeals a little, an odd giddy sound from one usually so composed. I can’t help but laugh. She’s so relaxed and happy that we naturally move closer, a tight clump of four people talking and joking in the same space and yet Kathryn seems completely unbothered. Marcus’s eyes rarely move from Kathryn, taking in every glance and change in her aura with a kind of wonder and worship.

Gordy volunteers to get the cake and thirty minutes later we’re all laughing as the plastic knives in the morgue kitchen prove woefully inadequate for the ice cream cake’s frozen core.

“No work tonight?” asks Gordy. “I’d think a Friday night was hopping at the morgue.”

“Not really,” says Kathryn. “It’s actually a slow night. Usually. I just have Mr. Bartley over there. But he’s in no rush.”

“Think Bartley wants some cake?” asks Marcus.

“I think he’s had enough cake for this lifetime,” responds Kathryn.

Gordy snorts as Marcus’s aura explodes in gold that seems to wrap around Kathryn, settling onto and vanishing into her skin. Gordy wanders over to the late Mr. Bartley.

“Sorry, bud. The boss says no cake for you.”

It’s a rare moment I wish I could pause and bottle for posterity, for those later days when I need a pick-me-up, a simple moment in which everything was weirdly happy. My brother, his…paramour, my best friend, hanging out in a morgue with sparkling juice and ice cream cake. It’s the first time I’ve felt like I belonged on this earth.

The wave of green energy passes quickly, less than the blink of an eye and if Marcus weren’t here, I might have thought I imagined it. We both stare at each other.

“Did you…?”

“Yeah.”

“What was…?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sorry, did we non-alien types miss something?” asks Gordy. Behind him, the white sheet covering Mr. Bartley rises. Kathryn’s olive skin pales.

“Gordy–” she begins.

Gordy’s relaxed expression changes abruptly to horror as the cold hand grabs him. The lanky Dryadalis falls to the floor as the nude corpse rises from the gurney.

“There’s sedative in the back,” calls Kathryn, running for the supply closet. Marcus sprints after her. Kathryn opens the door and through the frame I see the ethereal glow of the fey and insects that light the world in shades of neon.

“Guys, no!”

Too late. They both cross the threshold and the glow blinks from sight. They vanish into the void. I freeze. Something crashes.

“Still…having…problems…here.”

Gordy’s plea snaps me out of it. I sprint to the closet. Up close the darkness is just that, darkness. The light switch is right where I expect to the left of the door and reveals only metal racks neatly labeled with items. I grab a needle and vial of sedative, bolting back to Gordy, now grappled on the ground with Mr. Bartley. With a plunge, I sink the needle into Mr. Bartley’s shoulder. The animated corpse heaves and collapses. Gordy struggles underneath the dead weight. Carefully I roll the now-still body away.

Gordy stands, shakily brushing his pants and smoothing his jacket. “Everyone’s a critic,” he says. Distantly the sounds of chaos filter from the stairwell. Clearly Mr. Bartley wasn’t alone in being affected.

“What about…?” Gordy asks, gesturing to the supply closet.

“I don’t know. But until we figure out what’s happening we probably can’t get them back.” As we head for the stairs the noise of chaos grows and my heart clenches wondering what horrors Marcus and Kathryn must be facing alone. We have to get them out of there.

*

The antiseptic odor of the morgue vanishes, replaced by a sweet, almost syrupy aroma that brings to mind my mother making pancakes on a Saturday morning. Kathryn’s frantic energy comes to rest as she pauses, her face an expression of wonder, sense of peace in the air. Impulsively I reach for her hand and for the first time, she doesn’t shy away or blush. Her fingers gently encircle my own and emboldened, I step closer.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

This is definitely not the supply closet, I note. For as odd as the situation is, I can’t locate my reserve of worry or concern. I feel as happy and relaxed as the gorgeous creature beside me.

“It is,” I agree. And though I mean her more than our surroundings, it’s undeniable that this place fairly glows with a kind of life force more beautiful than words. The energy seizes me suddenly and I spin to face her.

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

“What?” Her skin glows and the place where our hands touch warms as if we were each other’s fire on a chill night.

“Anything,” I say. “Maybe something that scares you. Or where you wouldn’t normally go because of all the people.”

Kathryn glances around hesitantly. “I don’t know. Maybe, Paris.”

“Paris! What would you do there?”

She’s looking more uncomfortable but doesn’t pull her hands away.

“Silly stuff. Like, oh eat a croissant in an outdoor café. Listen to musicians in front of Notre Dame. Visit the Louvre.” She smiles before biting her lip. “But it’s too much,” she adds quickly.

“Not here,” I say. I feel it as if I built this place. I can bend it to my will, make it anything I want. Anything she wants. The deep greens and bright flowers twist and bend around us, colors shifting into a palate of beige and browns with red and white flair. This isn’t Paris, not modern Paris at least. This is the Paris pulled from her mind, the set of _An American in Paris_ and other old films she watched with her parents as a shy child. Kathryn gasps, gravitating towards the nearby café. Other couples pass by, a few customers sit outside the shop, reading the paper, sipping from oversized coffee cups. Projections only. They hold no weight and consume no presence. Kathryn sits in the white chair I pull out for her. Our waiter materializes instantly.

“Two croissants,” I say.

“And two café au laits,” Kathryn adds. I grin as the waiter walks away.

“Look at you.”

“Literally the only thing I remember from middle school French,” she says laughing. “I hope it’s ok I got you one too.”

“It’s perfect,” I respond.

*

The precinct lobby has devolved into all-out war, with no apparent difference between the sides, possibly no sides at all. Uniformed police and local citizens scream and punch, others rush to leave, no one seems to have their wits about them.

I center and radiate calming energy.

“Do you think we should do something?” asks Gordy.

I open my eyes just in time for someone to sock me in jaw. That didn’t go well. From my new position on the floor I keep my eyes open for further assailants and exert my aura to gain control.

“Why isn’t it working?” The panic builds as the fighting only intensifies. No one seems in control. A strong hand hoists me up.

“Are you alright?” asks Detective Parker. Her aura spins with anxiety, but she seems unaffected by whatever has the rest of the crowd in thrall.

“I can see you.” I stare. Her aura is clear to me, easily readable, as is Gordy’s. Everyone else…

“We need to go,” says Parker, roughly pulling Gordy and I back down the stairs. I let myself be dragged, at the morgue entrance Parker moves several gurneys to the door and pulls the privacy curtain closed. She breathes heavily, her distress now even more evident.

“Why do you always show up?” I blurt. It’s not her fault something has interrupted my empathing but I can’t help blaming her.

“Me?!?” she retorts. “I’m sorry, but why are you here? Oh and you’re welcome by the way for saving your ungrateful asses.”

“I’m grateful,” says Gordy.

“Saving us, right. We were doing just fine.”

“Yeah, I noticed how well you took that punch.”

I step into her space with a pointed finger.

“You–”

“Hey!” yells Gordy. We both freeze. He clears his throat. “Did not expect that to work. Anyways, now that I have your attention, I’d just like to point out that _something_ is clearly happening here and maybe we should try and figure it out.”

Parker’s stony hazel eyes glare at me. _You first_. I return the glare.

“Oh come on!” yells Gordy in a rare flash of genuine frustration.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Great,” says Gordy. “So Mr. Bartley came to life and attacked me, Marcus and Kathryn vanished, and people are rioting upstairs. Any theories?”

“Who came to life?” Parker asks. Gordy gestures to the prone figure of Mr. Bartley. Her face pales as she quickly looks about for any other unattended corpses. I snicker. Afraid of enclosed spaces and dead people. Parker is turning out to be a regular softie.

“Well it all started with that flash of light,” I say when Gordy glares at me. I receive two blank stares. “Green? Kind of washed over the place.”

Parker looks about nervously. Wait.

“Why weren’t you affected?” I ask.

“What?”

I move towards her slowly. “Everyone down here, well except for Mr. Bartley, was fine. Everyone up there has gone crazy. Why not you?”

Parker shrugs with forced nonchalance. When I’m within reach I grab her wrist, flipping her palm up. It’s dotted with the same green glittery energy that breezed through. Parker’s eyes widen and she pulls her hand away.

“What the hell, Adler,” she snaps.

“Yeah, not cool Rathe,” agrees Gordy with a frown.

“You can’t see it?”

“See what?”

I turn my own palm as an example. “Her hand. Your hand. It’s the same color that started this craziness. You must have touched something.”

Now Parker is visibly nervous. Gordy’s frown deepens.

“Hey, that’s my roommate and a good friend,” he says, stepping between me and Parker. “I don’t know who you are but if you’re hiding something…”

“I didn’t mean to,” Parker blurts. She covers her mouth with her hand. Mustard tang fills my mouth, sour, and sweet, and pungent and spicy. It burns my throat.

“First, calm down,” I say, fighting watery eyes from the spice. “Then explain everything, in detail.”

Parker takes a shaky breath.

“I wanted to help a friend,” she says. “I had the crystals and I thought I knew the ritual.”

_Crap_. The stolen crystals from Mr. Fernuffle’s store.

“You tried to recreate chrysalis.”

She nods.

“Why?”

Gordy chuckles. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Now it’s my turn to stare blankly.

“She–”

“Wanted to know if it was true,” Parker finishes quickly. Gordy shrugs in agreement.

“Anyways,” says Parker, still talking quickly and waving her hands. “I had the crystals, I had the incantation and was upstairs when…”

“Ka-bluey?”

“Seems like.”

“Well it’s your lucky day, because Rathe here has actually been through chrysalis.”

“Gordy!” I yell.

“You have?” asks Parker.

“Oops,” says Gordy.

I sigh. Too late for recriminations now.

“It was completely different,” I say. “Knowledgeable people ran it and…” Suddenly I know what to do.

“Gordy. Do you still have Mr. Fernuffle’s number?”

“I never delete a client number.”

“Good. Call him. Tell him it’s an emergency.” I turn to Parker. “And you and I are going back upstairs to get those crystals.”

*

The flaky, buttery dough melts on the tongue and the coffee is sweet and creamy.

“How did you make this so perfect Marcus?” Kathryn asks.

“What should we do next?”

Kathryn sets her jaw at a faux-pout for a second. “I’d like to stroll the boulevard,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, standing to help her up and offering my arm. I pluck an umbrella from a street vendor, holding the arched parasol high to block the sun from her eyes. I don’t know Paris, and so the scene shifts from one Hollywood version to another, passing by every museum and monument I can think of within ten minutes. Outside the Louvre, we pause.

“Shall we?” I ask.

“No,” she says. My heart drops. I’ve done something wrong. This isn’t quite right. She reaches carefully touching my cheek. He soft finger traces the curve of my jaw and I can barely breath. I see her struggling with what she wants to say and so I am compelled to press my luck, to push her from her comfort zone even further.

I lean into her open mouth and kiss. The umbrella drops from my hand as I encircle her tiny waist, pulling her into me. Her dry lips moisten quickly. I feel her breath, hot and surprised against my chin. But not upset.

“I want to come back here someday,” she says.

“Anytime,” I respond. I kiss her forehead, overcome with the need to surround, to protect her from everything harsh and overwhelming in the world.

“No,” she says softly. “Not like this. I mean really here.” Her throat bobs. “I want to see Paris. With you.”

“I don’t understand.”

We’re here. This is Paris. This is her perfect Paris, the one for us, where we can live without molestation or worries.

“Marcus, you’re forgetting yourself. This isn’t real. We’re trapped here but we can’t forget. Gordy? Rathe?”

“Rathe…” My sister is dead. The scene fuzzes briefly. Kathryn is right. I am forgetting something. The unfamiliar streets curve around, suddenly more threatening than charming. I am lost.

“Where are we?” I ask. I know I created this world, but how? And where did we start?

“Don’t worry,” Kathryn says, suddenly the strong, confident one. “I’ll make sure we get back.”

*

The melee has abated somewhat, having moved from the lobby to the street. Injured and bloodied lay on the ground. We need to hurry before someone gets seriously hurt. Or more people are seriously hurt. Parker stumbles through the area, back towards her desk, powering through to the evidence lock-up. Whoever should be manning the desk seems to have fled. Parker pushes through and I follow her to the back.

The box is tucked away behind some others, but I immediately recognize it from the storage unit logo on the side.

“Seriously, here?” Her steely gaze meets mine.

“Yeah. I figured behind a locked gate and dozens of cops was pretty secure.”

She’s got a point. On cue my phone buzzes.

“Rathe.”

“I hear you’re in need of my assistance.” Mr. Fernuffle sounds pleasantly intrigued. “Is this by chance related to your gift?”

“Um, no, not really,” I say, shuffling the phone to the side away from Parker. “It turns out with your, uh, inventory, a box got away.”

“I see.” His tone has grown wary.

“I’ve located it,” I say, hoping to mitigate any anger. “But some idiot seems to have tried the ritual and its wreaking havoc down at the police station.”

“The police station?”

“Yeah, they, um, confiscated it.”

“And released a fey wind no doubt.”

“Sure,” I say. “Things are spinning out of control real quick. If you can talk me through how to reverse it…”

“I wish I could,” he says sincerely. “But only a guide can properly open and close the portal. I’m a paper-pusher, not a guide.”

There is a long pause.

“It’s possible…” he says.

“Yes? What? Anything would help.”

“You’ve been through chrysalis and manifested. You may be able to draw it back.”

“How?’

“You’ll need someone to ground you,” he says firmly. I rub my forehead. Great.

“What else?”

“The inciting token,” he says.

“Inciting token?”

“Yes. Accessing the token improperly would release a wild wind. It’s why we haven’t been able to perform chrysalis since the chambers were closed. They served as a natural shield in case things went awry.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

The phone clicks. Parker looks down at the floor and I grit my teeth. She’s my only option.

“I hope you know which one of these set off the wave,” I growl.

With great effort she pulls a small jagged, purple rock from her pocket.

“This is your fault.”

There is no friend. Just a pathetic Sapiens hoping she was special.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, setting the totem between us. Mr. Fernuffle made it seem as if the process would come to me, but I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to do. Tentatively Parker extends her hands. Swallowing my revulsion, I take them, our arms forming a circle around the errant crystal. I feel it immediately, the anxious, reaching, searching energy of the stone as well as Parker’s own confused aura. The world seems to vanish as I step in between the auras, now a vessel in a place tinged in mustards and army green, the scent of fresh pretzels and the taste of a spring day that’s clear but a little too cold.

I’m looking through Parker’s eyes for my goal, buried somewhere in the sand. Falling to my knees I dig, rough kernels scraping my fingers and leaving tiny scratches. I uncover a wealth of lost toys, cars, figurines but carefully set those aside for another. The sharp edge pokes into my finger and I redirect my efforts. The crystal shines, no longer purple but completely clear, refracting the light from the sun into every color I’ve seen and then some. Each color connects to a person. The sun fades behind a color and the light strings vanish. It’s just a rock once more, and I place it carefully into my pocket, feeling the rush of light filling my body and extending from my fingertips and toes and joints out to the masses, each one influenced by my thoughts and movement.

_Control_. I’ve been here before. The beams of light weaken their hold and retract into my skin. I hold the ball of string now, but inside.

Parker heaves and loses her grip on my hand, turning she spits up something I can’t bring myself to look at. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Is it over?” she whispers.

“I don’t know.” It does feel much quieter.

In the lobby, the less injured tend to those on the ground. Sirens from afar grow louder.

“Thank god,” Parker says, still pale.

“I can’t be here,” I say, heading for the morgue. I don’t know if Parker even hears me.

I bang on the morgue door several times. Gordy’s large eyes peer through the privacy curtain.

“Let me in you doofus, it’s Rathe.”

“Are you, _you_?”

“Of course,” I yell. “Stop screwing around.”

After several long seconds of metal moving and locks turning, the door opens a crack. I shove my way in past him.

“Are Marcus and Kathryn back?”

Gordy blinks.

“What? No. It’s just me here.”

I run to the supply closet, flipping on the light.

Marcus and Kathryn jump away from their embrace, Marcus barrels into a rack of supplies that promptly topple from their neatly arranged slots.

“Knock why don’t you?” Marcus huffs. Unsuccessfully he tries to smooth down his tussled hair. I don’t even want to know.

“Hey, you’re back,” says Gordy brightly.

“All safe?” I ask Kathryn. She nods, more gracefully smoothing her hair back into place.

“Good,” I say. “In a minute this place is going to be swarming with EMTs and more cops than usual, so unfortunately I think we need to bolt. I hope you had a nice birthday. I’m sorry about the magical portal issue.”

“It’s fine,” says Kathryn. “It was exciting.”

“I bet,” I say looking at Marcus. His face reddens. He clears his throat.

“I’ll call,” he says.

“You’d better,” replies Kathryn.

*

Fancy is still going full swing by the time we return. A TV over the bar shows footage from outside the station. _Gas leak affects 100+_ reads the chevron on the bottom of the screen. Right. At least from what they show there are no casualties. A familiar aura claims the seat beside me.

“Thanks for the help tonight,” I say.

“Of course,” replies Mr. Fernuffle. He studies the TV. “I take it you were able to set it right?”

I sip slowly. “I guess so.”

“I don’t suppose you know who set the portal off?”

I chuckle. “Unfortunately I do. Name of Parker.”

Mr. Fernuffle lets out a low hum that echoes through my bones.

“Parker,” he says softly. “I know that name. She came to see me, right before I was shut down. She’s sick.”

“I know,” I say. “Completely twisted.”

Mr. Fernuffle shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “Not like that. She was exhibiting signs of separation. That’s how Sapiens have driven Leporem nearly from existence. Unlike Dryadalis and Neander, Leporem require chrysalis to survive into adulthood. Their body needs contact with their totem.”

I sip, letting the words wash over me. The wine tastes of rich berries and cream, a hint of spice on the finish. There’s no way I’m understanding this properly.

“That can’t be right,” I say. “She’s the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met across three earths.”

Mr. Fernuffle stands, placing a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

“I think you should talk to her,” he says finally. “Chrysalis is a big change. She won’t be able to ignore her biology any longer. She needs a friend.”

I drain the rest of my glass. In my wallet I find her card, the one she gave me when I first went to see her after waking up at the hospital. I squeeze my eyes. Sometimes I hate doing the right thing.

She picks up on the first ring.

“Detective Parker,” she says in her annoying clipped tone.

“Parker, it’s Rathe.” Even through the phone I can feel her energy change. I brace myself for the worst.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice cracks as she intakes air quickly. “So sorry.”

I lean my head against my hand, scarcely able to believe what I’m about to do.

“Hey, if you want to talk about it. I’m at Fancy. I’ll save you a seat.”

There is a long pause during which I wonder if we’ve been disconnected.

“Thank you.”


	11. Brotherly Love

“How long have you known?” I ask once Parker’s gotten settled with her beverage.

“I’ve known for years.” She tosses back the wine, much too quickly for stuff this nice but I can’t begrudge her wanting to get drunk right now.

Parker sighs, head low near the bar.

“My entire life I’ve felt different. Like an outsider. I never knew why, but it, it was excruciating.” She stares at me with eyes blood-shot with self-loathing. “I’m sure you can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“I may have a better idea than you know,” I say evenly.

Parker half-laughs, taking another long gulp. I signal to the bartender to bring some water over.

“It started a few years ago,” she continues. I’m not even sure if she realizes she talking aloud, but I stay quiet.

“I’d feel these…pullings. I don’t know how else to describe it. A kind of connection, as if there were a string between me and another person. You must think this sounds absurd.”

“Not at all.”

“It was only with people I knew well, at first. But then it grew. I can’t stand how it makes me feel. I hate that I did…what I did earlier.”

I shift in my seat. “What were you trying to do?” I ask.

“To make it stop,” she says. “I thought…if I just did it. This horrible compulsion would stop. I wouldn’t need it anymore.”

She must be sweating in the warm club for as I lean in I can smell that vinegar odor again. It’s overpowering yet no one else seems to notice. Her hazel eyes water, her pretty, thin face downturned.

“You’re not like most Sapiens,” she remarks. I can’t shake the sensation that her eyes can penetrate my shell. “I can’t influence you as easily and when I do…I feel it. Maybe that’s why I’m not afraid to tell you.”

Her cheeks flush, maybe from the heat or the alcohol. It feels very warm all the sudden but my insides are ice cold.

“Tell me. Say it.”

Our heads are close together, nearly touching so we can speak without yelling over the din. She smiles, a confident smile at odds with her teary demeanor.

“I’d rather you told me,” she says.

I inhale the words with her strangely intoxicating scent. Even now, knowing what’s happening I find I can’t resist. Her finger curls and I feel the deep well of sorrow and fear, rage and loathing just beneath this exterior with the power to take control.

“You’re Leporem,” I say. It’s the oddest sensation knowing I’m under her thrall and yet not wanting to break free.

“So, it would appear. But you’re not.”

“No,” I agree.

“What are you?”

This is dangerous. I force myself to break contact, to move from her space. The air cools and the overpowering scent dissipates.

“Not for you to know,” I say. She breathes heavily, her heart fluttering in her throat as the energy reverses its flow. My head clears. No wonder the Mayor considers Leporem dangerous. I inch away.

“Please don’t,” says Parker. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

“One more and I’m gone,” I say. Vaguely I wonder how people feel when I manipulate their aura. It must be less invasive than the Leporem charm, right? The thought fills me with discomfort. Are Leporem and Empathia really so different?

“I’m not Leporem, but I know something about what you’re feeling,” I say. “The build-up and need to release, the edge when you’re around people. I can teach you to control it.”

“Really?”

I nod, looking at the bar.

“But you’re going to do me a favor,” I say.

“Anything.”

“Hand over the files on my parents.”

Hollers from the drunk crowd as the dancers writhe onstage fill the silence in our conversation.

“Deal.”

*

Gordy bounds into my room early the next morning.

“Happy family day!” he says, tossing the comforter off me.

“Huh?” It’s bright not being under the covers and I squint trying to locate the cover without fully committing to open eyes.

“Family day!” replies Gordy. “Is that not a thing on your earth? It’s kind of a big deal here. Everyone does family stuff all day, board games, day trips, and always ending with a dinner in the evening where every family member present makes something.”

It’s too bright and without the warmth of the cover I’m grudgingly awake.

“Ok. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Well, cause I thought you knew it was coming. The whole point is not to plan. But you said I could be the brother you never had,” he adds brightly.

“Morning sis,” says Marcus in a sing-songy voice. “Oh sorry Gordy,” he adds as the door bumps into the Dryadalis’s crouched frame. “I, uh, just wanted to let you know that I’m up and ready for family day.”

“Yeah, about that…” I begin.

“Oh, and I invited Kathryn to join us,” Marcus says quickly. “Her parents live in Capital City and I didn’t want her to spend it alone.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.” The door closes behind Marcus.

“So…” says Gordy.

“So what?”

Gordy points at the door. “Are you going to go tell him or should I? I’ve already claimed you for family day.”

“Gods, Gordy, I can hang out with both of you. You’re roommates; doesn’t that make you two kind of like brothers?”

“Yeah, maybe,” says Gordy uncomfortably. “But I don’t know Marc that well. Not like you.” He pauses. “And I don’t think he likes me.”

“Then this is your chance to correct that,” I say with exasperation. “Now get out. I need to get dressed and I prefer to do so without an audience.”

Surprisingly Marcus manages to be even less gracious when I inform him that Gordy will be joining our family day activities.

“You invited Kathryn,” I say.

“Yeah, but you know Kathryn, and you like her. Plus, we’re dating. Sort of. Will be dating once she feels comfortable. Gordy is just some weird guy you work with.”

I bristle on Gordy’s behalf.

“Gordy was the first person on this earth that treated me with anything resembling compassion,” I seethe. “He is just as much family as you.”

Marcus flinches.

“I didn’t mean that,” I backtrack. “You’re both family. Different families.”

“No, I get it,” he says. I see him wrestling with his desire to be angry. He swallows hard, looking up with a false smile. “Let’s all get going,” he says.

We’re an odd group, lanky Dryadalis, and two lithe nearly identical Sapiens walking the street. Any other day our mixed subspecies would draw looks, but today no one seems to care. The cool air is unseasonably warm and families of all combinations, some groups of friends, others small nuclear families, and still others large extended families, walk the street window shopping and chatting with a festive air.

Even the tense space outside the police station has a relaxed holiday air to it as spouses with children stop by to visit parents at work or in holding in the jail next door. Marcus goes straight for the morgue, Gordy trailing him reluctantly. I walk quickly across the lobby and peek my head into the precinct. I know she’s here already for I can feel the army green and dusty yellow flavor. I set my hand down on the paper she’s reading.

“I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but apparently it’s family day,” I say.

Parker grabs my elbow and leads me out the room quickly.

“You can’t be here, it’s not safe,” she says urgently.

“Fine, fine,” I say, feeling a bit rebuffed. “I just…” I laugh to myself, feeling stupid. “My brother, my best friend have this whole thing about today. Which, for the record, I didn’t know about.”

“You didn’t know about family day?” Parker asks in a strange voice.

“It’s, um, the memory loss,” I say. “Anyways, I didn’t want you to be alone with all the…thoughts we discussed. Before.”

Parker clasps her hands behind he back, looking at the floor with a pained expression. Yeah. This is awkward as hell. I regret everything.

“You’re busy, working I see…” I don’t know why I can’t stop my babbling. I wish desperately for a riot or fire alarm or something to cut me off.

“…so, I guess I should go. And, uh, happy family day, I guess.” I turn, mortified.

“Was that an invitation?” Parker calls. “I’m not technically on duty today.”

“I don’t know.” I rake my hands through my hair nervously, she watches me closely which only amplifies my anxiety. I can’t tell if I’m being nice of my own volition or if this is another thrall situation.

“Yeah,” she says. “That’d be nice.”

“Wow. Uh, well, we’re assembling in the morgue.”

I turn, realizing as I say it how weird that sounds. Oh well. Parker follows gamely.

“It’s you,” says Gordy as Parker enters.

“Hey guys, I found another person without a family,” I say. “This is Parker. She’s Leporem.”

“What?” spits Marcus.

“You can’t just tell people that!” yells Parker.

“She’s the one who nearly got us killed!” says Gordy.

Kathryn backs away with a sad smile on her face. I catch her eye and even though I can’t hear her, I can tell from her lips what she’s saying.

_Feels like family_.

“Everybody STOP!” I yell. The talking ceases as my shout echoes around the large tiled room.

“First, we’re all here because we are a weird little family and from what I understand that’s what we celebrate today. Gordy was the first one to help me when I woke up; Marcus is actually family; Kathryn has been there for us in tight spots; and Parker here has been looking into the deaths of our parents for years.”

“Parker – everyone here can be trusted and already knows about your goof. Now, you all are the people I want to have forced time with today, so if anyone has an issue with anyone else speak now!”

Silence. Slowly Parker raises a hand.

“Yes?”

“Well, um. Actually my name is Dana. You don’t need to call me Parker.” 

“Great,” I say. Everyone looks at each other in silence. “How does this work?”

Four voices begin speaking at the same time, then pause uncomfortably.

“You know what?” I say. “I’m oldest. Probably.” I’m not actually sure of Parker’s age but I’m not in the mood to quibble. “I say that we do whatever Kathryn wants.”

Kathryn shrinks behind a gurney as the remaining three pairs of eyes swivel towards her. Gordy and Marcus promptly lower their gaze while Parker stares about in confusion.

“Ok, well…” Kathryn bites her lip. “My family used to go on a picnic when I was little. That was fun.”

“I can get food,” offers Gordy.

“I’ll grab a blanket,” adds Marcus.

“I know a nice park nearby,” says Parker. “There’s a tucked away spot no one knows about. I like to go there sometimes on rough days. To get away.”

Kathryn smiles and in spite of my frustration I do as well. Maybe today won’t be a total disaster.

Parker isn’t lying. While the park itself teems with families and children, she ducks behind a row of pine trees and leads Kathryn and I along a secluded path, completely hidden from the paved sidewalk only feet away. The path curves into the woods, opening in a small clearing. I text Marcus instructions as we scout the area.

“Does this work?” I ask Kathryn.

She nods as a figure all in black steps from the thick foliage and wraps a gloved hand around Kathryn’s mouth, muffling her scream. Parker whips her gun out, pointing it steadily at the attacker as Kathryn pales and faints in his arms.

“Gods, you can’t go pointing that thing at people,” I shout.

“Let her go, I’m a cop,” says Parker, studiously ignoring me, although her aura betrays some concern for Kathryn’s shock.

“Happily,” says the muffled voice. “We’re not after her. We want you.” The gloved hand extends in a point. I blink in confusion. The finger doesn’t move. I follow it to the intended destination, somewhere behind me and to the right.

“Parker?” I ask. Another figure emerges.

“If you come with us, we leave her unharmed.” In the thicket I can make out at least three more figures. We’re outnumbered, and that’s before considering the fact that even if Kathryn could fight, she’s in no position to help right now. Parker’s arm holding the gun aloft doesn’t waver.

“Why?” I ask.

“She has actions to answer for. There are those that would like a word.”

“What actions?”

The leader removes his face cover. Along his lower left jaw the skin seems to have been replaced with scales, or thorns. Green-purple protrusions that form a crescent up to his eye. He removes his left glove, revealing a similar scaly pattern on the skin of the hand.

“There is a reason chrysalis was banned,” he says darkly.

“Let her go,” says Parker in a steely tone, as if she missed the previous exchange.

“You have until the count of three,” says the one who seems to be in charge.

“One…”

“Parker,” I hiss.

“Two…”

“What the hell!”

“Thr–”

I fling myself forward, knocking the one holding Kathryn to the ground. As I tumble Parker leaps forward to strike the leader. The remaining shadows emerge and in the blur of black clothing, green grass, and yellow leaves I see her fall as well. Twigs and dry leaves grind painfully into my cheek as the soldier pushes his knee into my back, hand into my head. Parker lies similarly restrained, panic in her eyes, the gun several feet away on the ground.

“What will you do?” I ask in between shoves.

“She will pay,” the soldier says.

I close my eyes, centering and exerting a bubble of confidence, calm. Knowledge, hope over despair.

“Take me,” I say. Thankfully the shoving on my spine pauses.

“Why?”

“She doesn’t know anything,” I say. “She screwed it up. But I…I know how to reverse it. I can fix what she’s done to you.”

The leader crouches down to my level. Up close the scales are beautiful, if still jarring in contrast to his human skin.

“Why would you help us?” he spits. “If you are here with her, you must be one of them too.”

“I’m not. And I will help only on the condition that you let both of them go. Safely,” I add.

It’s difficult to maintain the concentration needed for something as delicate as hope. Lighter than a soap bubble, it needs to float, and find natural purchase on its host. All I can do is, ironically, hope.

“You can reverse all of it?”

“Yes.”

The leader thinks for a moment.

“Let them go,” he says. Kathryn falls to the ground and the one restraining Parker stands. Efficiently the leader strikes Parker once in the head. The whites of her eyes roll back into her skull as she collapses. One soldier apiece grabs my arms and drag me away.

“I said safely!”

“We couldn’t have her following,” the leader replies nonchalantly. “She will wake up with a headache. Nothing more.”

He turns to me and my guard stops. “Best if you don’t know where we’re headed either,” he says. I see the hand of half skin, half scale block the sun from view, and then nothing.

*

“Don’t get tomatoes! Rathe hates tomatoes!” I slap the red fruit from Gordy’s hand. He gives me the giant puppy dog eyes that cause my sister to feel sorry for him but only irritate me more. I can’t believe he horned in on my first family day with my sister. I grab the garlic hummus from the basket and toss it back on the shelf as well.

“We’re spending all day together,” I say. “I’m not going to deal with your garlic breath as well.”

“But that’s the best flavor,” Gordy whines.

“Pick another one.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot him grabbing the sun-dried tomato. Sheesh. Fine, I’ll just warn Rathe to stay away from the hummus.

“I thought you were getting a blanket,” Gordy says.

I hold up the one I purchased at the Goodwill next door.

“Done. Are you anywhere close?”

Gordy hems and haws over his random collection of fruit, cheese, and spreads. The frustration rises from my gut to sternum until it’s about to begin choking me at the throat.

“I think so,” he says.

“Well then, let’s check out,” I say through gritted teeth. My phone buzzes. Directions to the picnic spot. Rathe includes a candid photo of Kathryn smiling in the sunlight. Slightly blurred and obviously taken without her knowledge, she’s in profile to the camera, head tipped back as if drinking in the dappled light. A peace offering. If siblings are supposed to make you crazy then I guess Rathe and I are doing alright.

Gordy meanders his way up to the line, naturally picking the slowest moving one. I keep checking my phone. I’m not sure why. I have the directions and the girls are probably chatting while they wait for slow-poke McGee to finish getting the food. Minutes crawl by and finally Gordy reaches the head of the line and we can get moving.

The path dips discretely off the sidewalk just as Rathe explained. Family day might be salvageable after all, so long as Gordy doesn’t assign himself any more tasks. The trees open suddenly into a clearing that matches the view from the blurry photo.

Kathryn lies crumpled near the edge and Dana is prone in the center, bleeding from her hairline. I drop the blanket and bolt to Kathryn. Her eyes flutter and heart beats in her throat.

“Marcus,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. My fear transforms into a rage colder than I’ve ever felt. The grass is flattened in areas, suggesting several people came through recently. Kathryn’s skin sweats with anxiety, not just people, but aggressive people that wanted something.

“Where’s Rathe?” I ask.

Kathryn shakes her head, too overcome to speak. Gently I brush her hair from her face. _You’re stronger than you think_. I need her now. She swallows.

“I think there were six. All in black. One had…” She gestures to her jaw. “Like a lizard, or something. They wanted Parker. Said she did this. Rathe convinced them to take her instead.”

“How long ago? Where?”

“Maybe five minutes? I kept my eyes closed but I think that way.” She points opposite from the path that led us here.

Dana coughs behind me, Gordy awkwardly at her side, still clutching the bag of groceries. Tenderly she feels the gash on her head, grimacing as she notes the blood. She curses.

“They took my firearm.”

The fury inside me splits open. It needs a target. I grab Dana by the collar of her shirt.

“You let them take Rathe,” I say. “And Kathryn could have been seriously hurt. This is your fault.”

“Hey now,” says Gordy. “Family day, remember? Rathe invited Dana. So she must be like family. Act like it.”

“Rathe has never had a family day.” I’m yelling now, but I don’t care. I feel Kathryn cower and move away, so I step closer to Dana and Gordy to better direct my rage.

“This is her first one. It was supposed to be ours. _Our_ family. You’re not part of that,” I say to Gordy, “and neither are you,” I add to Dana.

It feels good to release. The white-hot tentacles of energy explode in all directions, burning and freezing, leaving no one unsure as to my feelings on the matter. Protectively I shelter Kathryn from the blast. The earth seems to wait for my next move. Gordy and Dana stare dumbfounded.

“You’re right,” says Gordy.

“Yeah,” I say with surprise.

“I’m not your family. But I am Rathe’s. And I am going to find her.” With determination Gordy drops the bag and marches back up the path.

“How are you going to do that?” I ask sarcastically.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but Rathe and I do investigative work. I’m going to investigate. It’s better than standing here and yelling with you.”

“You do that,” I say. “My sister and I share a connection. I don’t need to waste time hacking government databases.”

“Guys STOP!” Dana’s face is red from the bruising and scratched from her grappling on the ground. She swallows. “I don’t care who of you cares more about Rathe. Ultimately this is my fault, and if we want to find her, we all need to work together. Quickly.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I know who took her. Those uniforms, they’re old Port City SWAT tactical gear, logos stripped, but I’d know that stuff anywhere, it’s what they use now in training.”

“So Port City SWAT took Rathe?” Gordy asks. “Wait. Is this related to Scrimner corporation?”

“In a manner of speaking,” says Dana. “I’ll explain while we move.”

While we walk, Gordy provides the background on Scrimner. The legal structure and a complicated financial relationship with the city that I can’t really follow, but get the gist that it’s not normal and probably bad. Dana follows, more haltingly, with her version. Her Leporem awakening, claiming her token, and the failed attempt to complete the chrysalis ritual, with all its attendant side effects.

“You’ve completed chrysalis, then?” I ask.

“Yeah. With Rathe.”

“How’s that feel?” It’s off topic but I’m curious. Dana shrugs with a touch of embarrassment, her heart pattering slightly faster against her ribs. Perhaps later.

“Alright,” I continue, “how does that tie back to Scrimner? Why do they care?”

“Because they are trying to eliminate chrysalis and any magic associated. But more to the point, it’s agonizing to be in the partially-formed stage.”

Dana’s tone breaks from neutral for the first time as she says this, cracking with her own memory of twisting pain in the gut, blinding headaches, and overwhelming want, no, _need_. Even as an emotional echo the intensity astonishes me. She pushes the sensation away with remarkable control for a Sapiens.

Not a Sapiens, I have to remind myself. Leporem. A Leporem that better not be charming my sister into danger. Or the rest of us.

I stop.

“How can we trust you?” I ask.

“Marcus,” Kathryn says gently. She doesn’t need to finish. _Have faith_.

“I can’t,” I say.

Kathryn watches me sympathetically. “I may be able to help. There’s a combination of drugs which, experimentally at least, have been shown to suppress...”

If we split up we’ll move faster, but it also means trusting Gordy to not fug up the timeline. And I definitely don’t trust him with a Leporem. Although I don’t love the idea of him with Kathryn either. I grit my teeth.

“Gordy and Kathryn get the stuff from the morgue,” I say. “Dana, you’re with me.”

Without Dana to direct me I would have completely missed the old shooting range at the end of the park. The nondescript grey concrete building has no signs, and no door is visible from the road. The only windows are more than seven feet off the ground and appear frosted for privacy. We don’t have much time.

I text Kathryn. _Status?_

_Gordy just left._

Swell. If we just hang tight for one, maybe two hours, he’ll deign to drop by. Assuming he doesn’t pass a deli on the way. My phone buzzes again.

_He will be there soon._

A human form zips by the road without stopping. It’s tall and lanky, with shirttails flapping in the wind. Crap he’s fast. He’s got a head start not to mention six extra inches of stride so I have to churn my legs before I’m close enough to grab his loose clothes.

“Hey,” says Gordy, stopping suddenly. “I must have missed the turn.”

The guy isn’t even breathing hard. I turn around to catch my breath, desperately wanting to seem as if that wasn’t the fastest and most painful sprint of my life when he apparently sustained that speed over half a mile.

“Back…” I gesture rather than tax my lungs finishing the thought aloud. Dana waves from the brush and Gordy trots over. Gamely she extends an arm, a hint of nerves on the corner of her aura as Gordy produces a needle from his backpack.

There. No more worries about the Leporem leading us astray. I gasp painfully, allowing myself to hunch over. Oh it burns. I’m going to feel that tomorrow.

“We good?” asks Gordy.

“Yeah. Let’s head in.”

“How?” Gordy asks. “We aren’t exactly guns ablazin’ here and they’ve seen Dana.”

“I’ve got an idea.”


	12. Potential

The room echoes with footfalls and the sound of arguing. Concrete walls and scuffed hardwood floor are all that’s in sight. One eye either covered or swollen shut. I’m guessing swollen shut.

“She’s up,” calls a voice somewhere in the sightline of my bruised eye.

“Then it’s time.” The second voice I recognize as lizard-face. A fact confirmed as he kindly steps into my line of sight. A few soldiers shove a box over, the insides rattle and clank, stone on stone.

“First, turn me back,” lizard-face demands. “Then, you are going to destroy this. Once that’s done I’ll kill you, but quickly in thanks for your cooperation. Fail to do so and I’ll kill you, but so slowly you’ll beg for the mercy of a painless death.”

Swell. My first task is the impossible. Literally the statement they make you repeat before beginning chrysalis just so you can’t say you didn’t know later. I open my mouth but before anything can happen the door bursts open loudly and every guard turns towards the intruders.

“Dude, we are clearly lost,” yells Marcus loudly.

“No way. I’ve been here a million times,” says Gordy, drawing out his words even longer than usual, slinking about within lanky form. “Just relax. Have a drink.” A half-finished bottle sloshes as he tips it back, staggering about.

Dramatically Marcus rolls his eyes. “Hey maybe you guys can help,” he says to the guards. “This bozo promised to hook me up with a solid vendor. Any chance you know someone that does that kind of business around here?”

“Oh, this is not going to end well,” I whisper to myself.

“That what I told them.” I jump at the quiet voice in my ear. The restraints on my wrists loosen suddenly as Parker moves onto my ankle ties. They fall loose around the chair legs.

“Let’s go,” she says, leading me towards the back exit.

“He’s here. I’m sure we can get enough for you guys too,” Gordy says to the soldiers, still speaking much louder than necessary.

“You need to get out of here,” says a guard.

“Dude, I’m trying,” says Marcus, taking a swig of the bottle Gordy proffers. “Help us out?” He wiggles the bottle at the guard. The guard swipes, knocking the bottle from his hand and sending it shattering across the floor. The second swing is on target to connect with Marcus’s jaw when Gordy bolts between the two, knocking them both to the ground. Promptly every guard pulls a gun, pointing it at Gordy or Marcus.

I shove against Parker and the air ripples as I seek out those that would hurt them. The guards fall impassively to the ground, weapons clattering loudly. One snores. Parker releases her grasp on my elbow.

“What the hell are you?” she asks.

I ignore her and run to Marcus and Gordy.

“What were you doing?” I cry. “You idiots could have been killed!”

“Nah,” says Gordy. “We knew you wouldn’t let us die.”

“What did you think of our distraction?” asks Marcus.

I laugh. “It was…unexpected.”

“That was the idea.”

“How’d you guys find me?”

“Parker brought us here.”

“I should’ve figured,” I say, turning back to Parker. “You’re eyeball deep in this shit, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“Hey, it’s cool Rathe. She helped us out,” says Marcus.

“She’s been thralling me,” I say evenly. “Or trying.”

Marcus shakes his head. “Kathryn whipped up a concoction to stop that. Temporarily at least.”

Parker’s throat bobs nervously.

“The truth?” she says.

“That would be a refreshing change.”

“I’ve been undercover with Scrimner for almost a year now. Not as a cop,” she adds quickly. “On my own. A lot of the force is affiliated with Scrimner, it’s kind of an open secret. I’ve been doing small jobs for them, trying to earn their trust.”

“Why?”

“Hey, you may not want to hear this, but I’m a good cop,” Parker says angrily. “Why do you think I’m always telling you to stay away? Capturing the most notorious surviving Adler would be a coup for Scrimner. You’re the last person alive with any ties to the old ways. So, despite the fact that you don’t deserve it, I’m helping!” Parker throws her hands in the air helplessly.

The vision comes on to rapidly for me to retort, blinding orange pain, choking and falling, falling, except it’s not me, it’s the world collapsing into flames as I stand still, the flesh of my left side erupting into agony…

I cough and I’m on the floor, the horrible orange pain gone. Gone for me anyway. No wonder he wanted to take it back.

“Was that a…?” Marcus asks. I nod, eyes fixed on the target.

Lizard-face sleeps next to his other guards. Carefully I rouse him. His patched skin contorts in waves as he comes to.

“You…” he says drowsily.

“Me.” I take his hands and step into the space between us. His body relaxes further as the pain abates, his green-purple scales glistening in the muted light. His eyes open as I release him, clear and bright as his freshly scrubbed orange aura, the pain gone.

“I can’t go back,” he says. “Not like this, they’ll kill me.” His panic rises quickly. He spins to his feet and thrusts the pointed lizard claw into the neck of his comrade, swiping at another. Red floods across the wood floor and he bolts from the empty shooting range.

“We need to get him,” Parker says.

“He won’t come back for you,” I say. “But there are others that we need to find before they cause similar problems.”

“What do you mean?” asks Gordy.

“Half-manifest abilities.”

“Isn’t it good if magic is getting back out there?” asks Marcus.

“Not if they can’t control it. And not if the ritual was never completed. Gordy, I need you to pull records of who was at the precinct last night. Cross-check that with any reports of unusual activity. Marcus, I need you to help Kathryn pull together some suppression meds and sedatives.”

“And me?” asks Parker.

I roll my eyes and wave her over.

“Looks like we’re together for now. Let’s track him down.”

Lizard-face’s path is easy to follow based upon the crushed leaves and broken bushes in his wake. After a minute it’s even easier for we can hear the sounds of children and parents screaming in the playground of the park. I pick up my pace, bursting through the wall of pine trees with Parker right behind.

Lizard-face claws at his scales in a kind of mindless rage. His human skin is marked with slashes from his claws and the scales appear to be growing, covering a larger portion of his body by the minute. Of course. His fully transformed self, but he’s resisting.

Parker runs past me, tackling lizard-face in an embrace. He struggles briefly before his form shimmers, the striking scales covering his entire body, then seeming to melt away until the man stands, clothes torn form his own claw and dash through the woods, looking somehow very small amongst the frightened children.

Parker leads him to the side and parents offer scattered applause while herding their kids to a safer space.

“I have to arrest you,” Parker says.

Lizard-face, although now fully human, nods. “I understand.”

“You don’t have to,” I argue. “No one was hurt.”

Parker looks at me sharply. “Those five officers are no one?”

Oops. “Right, well, no civilians,” I correct.

“It’s alright,” says lizard-face. “If she doesn’t then they will find out about her.” He looks at me with sad eyes. “There were two others that seemed affected.”

“We’re already looking.”

“Good.” He swallows hard. “If I’d known, it would be like this…”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Parker.

“No. I would have begged my parents to undergo chrysalis. I feel complete.”

Parker helps lizard-man forward, pulling cuffs from her jacket. Slowly they head back to the station, onlookers staring and whispering behind hands.

It takes a moment for me to realize that only half the attention is on the man that stumbled into a playground as a half-man half-lizard. The other half are watching me. Self-consciously I turn, trying to obscure my face behind my phone. Some of the whispers make their way to my ears.

_That’s Rathe Adler._

_…everyone thought she was dead._

_…say it was a miracle._

_…wonder why she’s here…_

I have to get out of here. The phone buzzes and I quickly answer, going from pretend phone call to actual one.

“Gordy, get me out of here.”

“Yes ma’am. I think I’ve identified your first target. Ryan Moore. High school senior living off Grant Ave.”

I hang up the phone and text Parker the address. She pulls the car over to pick me up on the way. We travel silently, the low vibration hum of her energy the only noise I can’t seem to filter.

The modest white house has a well-kept lawn and one car in the driveway. Parker hits the doorbell and the ring chimes pleasantly inside. Through the decorative windows the shadow of whoever is home approaches before the door swings open.

“Hello,” says the middle-aged man. “Can I help you?”

“Detective Parker,” Parker says, flashing her badge. The man peers at it closely with squinted eyes.

“And who is that?” he asks inclining his head towards me.

“Uh…this is…my consultant,” says Parker.

“Hello,” I say extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure.” Warm palms contact and he relaxes, I even earn a trusting smile.

“Well now that seems good and proper. What can I do for you ladies?”

Parker’s aura bristles slightly.

“It’s about your son,” I say. “Ryan Moore. He’s not in trouble, we think he may have witnessed something and would like to speak to him is all.”

“He’s inside.”

The interior of the home is neat and cozy. Photos of the family abound, blankets line the couch, and a small fuzzy dog snoozes in the corner, perking up its head as we enter but opting to return to its nap. A sturdy teenager bounds down the stairs, floppy hair and thick eyebrows. His smile fades when he sees us.

“We’ll talk upstairs,” I say quickly, shepherding him back before he can say anything. “Won’t be but a minute.”

“I saw you two!” the boy says as the door closes. “You were at the station when all that crazy stuff went down!”

“I know, we’re here to help.”

“How can you possibly help? I don’t even know what’s happening!” His eyes roll about in his sockets anxiously.

“Show me,” I say.

“No,” he says, backing into the wall. “I know what happens. You’ll take me away. I’ll never come out.”

Parker puts her hands up. “I swear, that’s not why we’re here.” She drops to a crouch, lowering her eyes. “What is happening to you, happened to me too. Rathe can help. It will help you control it, to blend in. Make sure they can’t send you away.”

Ryan releases a slow breath. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” I say.

“No,” he says. “Her.”

“I swear,” says Parker. “If this doesn’t work, you can tell them about me.”

The boy nods, apparently satisfied. He picks up a cup, half-filled with water from his desk, holding it upright in his palm. The cup rises from his hand, water shaking but the glass entirely free-floating in the air. The boy watches it with intense concentration. The glass shakes more, water sloshing dangerously close to the edges. He grabs the cup, catching it as water spills onto the carpet.

“Neat trick,” says Parker.

I take his hands, and after a moment of tension he relaxes and allows me to guide him through his chrysalis.

“Wow,” he says.

“Feel better?” asks Parker. Her greens and yellows seem softer than usual, they extend in tendrils supporting and wreathing Ryan Moore’s red aura. She’s charming him, I realize with a start. Smoothing the process for me. Does she know? A quick glance tells me she’s both aware and conflicted about it. Mist envelopes her, my own bit of charm, comfort I prefer to think of it, and for a second we’re all weirdly connected through our energies.

In the car Parker clears her throat.

“I know what you did back there,” she says.

“Likewise,” I say.

She stares ahead, hand on the ignition. “I don’t mind, you know. I can tell now, but I’m guessing you’ve done that to me before, and I just didn’t know.”

I recall our first meeting, times at Fancy when I needed to distract her. It’s been more than a couple times. I often don’t even notice, I’m so used to being the emotional meter in a space, to modulating and adjusting the auras of those around me. Even now… Consciously I retract my emotional energy, trying to contain it within my own physical space. It’s close to impossible to sustain.

“I told you I knew something about the challenges,” I say shortly. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Not to her. She hasn’t earned that. I’m a good guy. What I do or do not in controlling the auras of others shouldn’t worry me.

Our phones buzz at the same time. Thank gods, the next address, only a few blocks away.

“We might finish in time for family day dinner,” says Parker.

Crap I forgot that was a thing.

“Hope you know how to cook,” she says with a smirk.

“Actually I’m a great chef,” I say. “You?”

“I, um…” Parker laughs, a sparkling laugh that refracts the light around her into rainbows. “I once set a spoon on fire making mac’n’cheese.”

I burst out laughing at the unexpected confession. “You’re kidding. Don’t they treat the wood so that can’t happen?”

“I think so. And yet…” She shrugs with embarrassment. “I can do salad or something.”

“Oh no,” I say. “If I’m leading this, I’m holding you to making something real. We’ll make sure there’s a fire extinguisher on hand.”

Our second target falls easily under Parker’s charm, allowing us into her house. A thirtyish single professional woman, she confesses to the headaches and ability remember everything suddenly. One head trip later and we’re in the clear. I leave her Gordy’s card, the one he had made up for Anonymous Mysteries in case she needs help connecting to others.

“I never expected…” she says, staring at the card. “I mean, I’m Sapiens. I thought I was Sapiens.”

“You still are,” I say. “Things are changing. You can reach your potential now.”

She glances up with fear in her eyes. “Do you think I’m dangerous?” she whispers.

I want to ask how a perfect memory could make anyone dangerous, but I’ve seen enough to know humans of all subspecies will find a way. I take her shoulders.

“It’s a gift,” I say. “How you use your gift is up to you. Whether you use your gift is up to you. It can be a source for good or bad, but know that it doesn’t change you.”

“So…I’m not dangerous?” she asks haltingly.

“Would you have considered yourself dangerous a week ago?”

“No.”

“Then no,” I say. “You’re the same you. Just with a new skill.”

*

We gather at the morgue. It’s Kathryn’s shift and, as Marcus points out, they have a kitchen there no one else will be using. It beats fighting for space in the shared kitchen at Fancy. It’s been awhile since I cooked anything. Gordy always gets takeout and Fancy has a troupe of chefs that regularly feed the employees.

The wares in the morgue kitchen are slim, but if anything I find that more exciting for the opportunity to get creative. One at a time we use the kitchen, each person taking care to shield their work from everyone else. Finally the everything is close enough to completion that I help Kathryn clear the table in the breakroom so that the five of us can crowd around to begin eating.

Gordy brings out his concoction first, something which appears to have started its short and brutal life as an avocado but took a turn somewhere in the process of becoming guacamole or dip. It’s a thick dip meant for chips which ultimately tastes fine, as long as one can close their eyes and avoid the goopy brown appearance that signals gastrointestinal distress on the horizon.

Kathryn opts to go second, and brings in a set of breakers and test tubes in various colors. Methodically, she pours a bit into the beakers, mixing, and redistributing, confidently slicing limes and squeezing for the finishing touch on each one.

“Drink up,” she says with shy pride. We sip cautiously, but there is no need. The mixed drink is phenomenal, and we all clamor for seconds.

Marcus grins. “I did this deliberately because now you’ll all be nicer for my dish,” he says. Marcus brings out a pot of roasted vegetables, carrots, potatoes, brussels sprouts, and squash. Far from a terrible dish, but highlighting the uneven cooking of the morgue oven as well as his overfondness for salt.  

Gordy chews with satisfaction. “Could use more salt,” he muses.

The rest of us stare in disbelief, even Marcus choking a bit at the comment as he tries to discern honesty or sarcasm.

Marcus finally grins. “And yours could’ve used something too. Maybe next year you can shape it into actual turds.”

“Next year?” says Gordy. “There’s a thought.”

“Aw, how sweet,” I say.

“Yeah, whatever. Alright, who’s next?” asks Marcus with a gleam. “Rathe or Dana?”

“I’d prefer we didn’t end on mine,” says Dana quickly. I wave my arm to cede position. She returns bearing a tray of cookies, still warm and slightly underdone, the chocolate chips ooze as I tear the dough apart.

“Not bad, Parker. What’d you do? Follow the directions on the package?” I tease. She reddens and Marcus laughs as a cookie falls apart on the tray.

“Looks like we’re all pretty lousy in the kitchen,” he says.

“Hold up,” I complain. “Still one more person to go.”

“I forgot,” Marcus grins. “Gonna show us all up?”

“Someone’s got to set an example,” I retort.

It takes a few trips for me to bring the dishes I’ve made in, each time deriving a bit more satisfaction from the way Gordy’s jaw drops, Marcus’s eyes go wide, and Parker stares. Kathryn sips her drink with a knowing smile. I take a seat.

“So, that’s it?” Parker remarks. Gordy chokes on his drink.

“For tonight,” I reply, realizing too late the not-at-all-intended implication. This time Marcus is struck with a coughing fit, requiring Kathryn to pat him on the back for several seconds. Parker stares unblinking at the floor.

I clear my throat.

“I had a feeling this could be an abysmal dinner,” I say. “So I made a few things so we don’t have to go to sleep hungry. Pretzel and mustard crusted salmon; asparagus with balsamic glaze; garlic mashed potatoes; and fresh baked sweet rolls.”

“This looks awesome,” says Gordy with feeling. It breaks the awkward tension and the group dives in. Marcus leans into me as he reaches for a roll.

“Pretzel and mustard crusted salmon,” he says casually. “Inspired.”

My head snaps. He couldn’t possibly see the same auras I do. I’m not sure if the comment was meant seriously or if…

Parker closes her eyes rapturously as she takes a bite of the fish.

No. I wasn’t thinking of her. I found the old pretzels and thought it sounded nice is all. I take another sip and wonder if Kathryn’s second round of drinks is actually stronger or if we’re all just getting tipsy from not having eaten much of the first three food courses.

Marcus raises his glass and conversation hushes.

“This is the first family day I’ve celebrated in eleven years,” he says, his sincerity apparent even through his bad-boy smirk. “I admit this isn’t the group I expected to spend the day with, but there are no other four people I’d rather have by my side while taking care of crazy shit in this town.”

“Cheers to that,” says Gordy. Glasses clink around the table. The white tile room has a cheery glow to it, as if lit by a nice fire instead of harsh florescent. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in my head.

“I’ve missed this,” Marcus says, looking at me with moonlit eyes. “These opportunities to get to spend time with you, to experience the life I should have had.” First time I feel the flattering nature of being an older sibling; of being someone’s hero for no particular reason. How easily he trusts and looks up to me, sees what he too could achieve.

“In that vein…” continues Marcus. Kathryn reaches for his hand under the table. I can see his knee vibrating nervously. “I’d like for you to be my guide as I go through chrysalis.”

The gentle buzzing of the room ceases immediately as his words echo off the walls.

“Say what?” I ask. Everything is off-kilter, as if the room suddenly tilted.

“Chrysalis,” Marcus repeats, a bit more firmly. “I’m well past the age of majority. It’s what our parents would have wanted. And it’s what I want,” he concludes.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous. Look at this whole mess from today. A million things could go wrong and I can’t guarantee anything.”

Marcus’s chair scrapes back with a painful high-pitched sound. “I don’t need your guarantee,” he says. “It’s my right.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” I say.

“That’s bullshit. You’re being selfish.”

Marcus storms out of the room. After an awkward moment, Kathryn slides her chair out and follows.

“I guess we’re done?” asks Parker.

“Yeah I think so,” I say.

“It was a nice meal,” she says quietly.

“Com’on,” says Gordy, extending a hand. “Kathryn will help him calm down. I’ll get you home. Tomorrow he’ll be fine.”

“You think?”

Gordy nods. “He has to forgive you. He’s your brother.”

*

Gordy is right. The next morning Marcus apologizes contritely for his outburst, although I can tell he’s still upset. I don’t respond, only bring him in for a hug.

“I’m always here for you,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I’m not used to someone watching out for me.”

“Well get used to it.”

My phone buzzes. I frown. Parker.

“Hello?”

“Hey. I’m outside.”

“Sure,” I say confused. Why is she outside of Fancy? “I’ll be right down.”

I give Marcus another hug and grab my jacket on the way out. Parker stands with her arms around her chest, bouncing slightly in the noticeably chillier air. She exhales a cloud of breath and pulls a notebook from the inside of her jacket.

“What’s this?”

“I always honor a deal,” Parker says. “Case notes on your parents.”

“I asked for the file.”

Parker shakes her head. “Trust me, this is better. The official file has been thoroughly scrubbed. But what’s in there, those are my personal notes, things that have since been removed from the file. Names of witnesses, odd details that didn’t match the official story, the like.”

She pauses. “I hope you can make more of it than I could. It never sat well with me what happened. Or rather, what we didn’t know about what happened.”

“Thanks.”

Parker pauses, weighing.

“Say it.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever you’re debating saying, just say it,” I respond.

“Well…” Parker shuffles, scuffing the front of her shoe against the curb. “It’s none of my business.”

“But…?”

“But, I, um, I think you should let Marc go through chrysalis.”

“You’re right,” I say. “It’s not your business.”

The freaking nerve.

“You said it yourself,” Parker calls as I retreat. “We all deserve the chance to reach our potential. If that’s the case, doesn’t that go double for your own brother? Doesn’t he deserve the chance to know?”

“It could mean nothing!” I say.

“So?” Parker says. “It’s his decision to make. Just as it was yours, and just as it was mine.”

I walk back to Parker, stabbing my pointer finger into her chest.

“Your decision endangered hundreds of people. Don’t you dare equate it to mine.”

“You can guide him safely,” Parker says. “I made a mistake, but you have the power to let people reach their potential. Why does that scare you?”

“Thanks for the file,” I say, stepping away.

“Rathe…” Parker calls.

The door swings shut, leaving the chilly air and unwanted judgement of the stubborn Leporem detective behind.


	13. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Objectively Parker is right, a fact I allow myself to acknowledge only as I’m in the midst of my daily self-loathing ritual in the gym. But subjectively it’s trickier. My brother. Baby brother. That I just met, have barely known. It’s too soon for things to change between us. I can’t lose him; can’t lose what little family I’ve managed to build here. Does that make me selfish?

_Hell yes_.

Yeah, well who is she to judge? Some pathetic Leporem with no family or friends of her own.

_But she did deliver you the file_.

Right. The worn notebook tucked under the mattress that I haven’t been able to bring myself to read. Because then I have to acknowledge a whole other trauma I’d rather not think about. Two parents and a sister all gone at once. Four years in foster homes. I don’t think I could do it. Maybe Marcus is stronger than I give him credit for.

I grit my teeth as the timer ticks down, signaling the end of my torture. The least I can do is face what he’s had to live with for the past ten years. No more hiding.

*

_Det. Dana Parker; Adler case notes; transcribed interview with Marcus Gibson._

_Parker: Thank you for speaking with me today._

_Gibson: I wasn’t aware I had much of a choice. That was the impression your police captain gave._

_Parker: Nonetheless, we are very interested to get to the bottom of this, and I appreciate your cooperation._

_Gibson: (intelligible)_

_Parker: Excuse me?_

_Gibson: Let’s get this over with._

_Parker: Absolutely. What can you tell me about the activities of the Adlers? I understand you worked closely with Mr. Ethar Adler._

_Gibson: He is…was a close friend._

_Parker: How did you meet?_

_Gibson: It was a long time ago… I was on a transatlantic flight for business. The first time I’d ever flown over an ocean. I was a nervous wreck. Ethar had the seat next to me. He could tell I was nervous and spent most of the eleven-hour flight telling me stories to distract me. We started talking and have remained friends ever since._

_Parker: Do you find that unusual?_

_Gibson:  Not at all. Ethar is a very charismatic man. Why do you think he ran for public office?_

_Parker: I mean that he chose to talk to a Dryadalis. That he could calm you. There are rumors that the Adlers are Leporem. What do you think of that??_

_Gibson: (laughs) I think those people have never met Ethar Adler or his family._

_Parker: Are you close with his family?_

_Gibson: Yes, I told you, he was one of my closest friends. He named his son after me. I remember his asking if that would be ok. I’ve never felt so honored._

_Parker: You speak very highly of him. Why do you think so many people do not share your opinion?_

_Gibson: Simple jealousy._

_Parker: Do you think many people were jealous of the Adlers?_

_Gibson: I don’t know why they would be._

_Parker: Really? A family new to Port City, immediately rising to prominence? New ideas about government and the way our society should work?_

_Gibson: They aren’t new ideas Detective. Ethar was just the first person in a while to articulate them aloud._

_Parker: And you don’t think that would have made him enemies._

_Gibson: Some, I suppose. But as I mentioned earlier, he was very charismatic. I think even those that didn’t like his views would not call him an enemy._

_Parker: I see. Can you expand on your role in Ethar Adler’s campaign?_

_Gibson: I was an advisor._

_Parker: In what capacity?_

_Gibson: People, I guess you could say._

_Parker: What does that mean?_

_Gibson: I…I provided a lay of the land. Important people to know, connections made through my business. Introductions. That kind of thing._

_Parker: So is it safe to assume you often accompanied Mr. Adler on his campaign meetings?_

_Gibson: Important ones, yes. He said he enjoyed having me along. It often set the other party at ease as well. Gave the meeting less of a “squirrely backroom vibe.” His words. (laughs)_

_Parker: And in all these meetings, you never met anyone antagonistic? I find that hard to believe._

_Gibson: I didn’t say that._

_Parker: Why are you so reluctant to provide names? You were close friends with Ethar Adler and his family by your own admission. I’d think you would want to see some justice for what happened._

_Gibson: You seem convinced it wasn’t an accident._

_Parker: And you’re not?_

_Gibson: I only know what I’ve been told._

_Parker: Well I’ll tell you what I know. Ethar Adler completed his speech around 8:45 p.m. in the evening. He spent some time talking to the crowd, photos, the usual. Multiple witnesses place you by his side._

_Gibson: That’s my job._

_Parker: He leaves with his wife and daughter. It’s a clear night. Somehow, in this very popular, very public man’s circle no one knows when or where he left. We know by 9:30 p.m. he was no longer at the venue. We also know that at approximately 9:35 p.m. we received a call that his car, containing his wife and daughter was located thirty miles away, smashed on all sides._

_Gibson: I know all of this._

_Parker: Then you also know that their vehicle was alone. No tree or post was hit. No shards from another car on the scene. Nothing. How does something get so thoroughly destroyed without another person or thing present?_

_Gibson: I thought that was your job to discern._

_(pause)_

_Parker: The Adlers were proponents of chrysalis, correct?_

_Gibson: Yes._

_Parker: Are you aware of anyone with powers that could manifest in this way?_

_Gibson:  I don’t know what you mean._

_Parker: Super-strength. Teleportation. You must have seen a lot. The Adlers were popular amongst that crowd._

_Gibson: That’s not how it works._

_Parker: Then tell me how it works._

_Gibson: I’d rather not._

_Parker: I’m trying to help._

_Gibson: So am I. How old are you?_

_Parker: How is that relevant?_

_Gibson: Rookie I bet. Nineteen? Twenty? Fresh out of the academy. Probably your first case. Maybe you had a purse-snatcher before this, but this is the first real case. Have you wondered why they would assign a green-faced rookie something like this?_

_Parker: It was assigned to me randomly. I’m a good cop._

_Gibson: Then a word of advice. Don’t let yourself get sucked into this one._

*

The interview goes on for several more pages but I think I’ve read enough. Marcus Gibson knew, knows, something; that much is obvious. I wonder if Gordy knows that our parents were such good friends. It seems unlikely. But not impossible. Where is Gordy?

Tentatively I open the curtained door of my makeshift room. The boys front quad is empty. This time of morning is typically when Gordy does his work though, so not too unexpected. I find him in the kitchen, somehow managing to power his way through a bag of chips while scarcely breaking stride on his coding.

“What’s up?” he asks. “Oh! I have got a juicy case in the queue for us this afternoon!”

“It will have to wait.” His fingers fly across the keyboard at magnificent speeds, complex as if he were playing the piano. “Gordy, where are your parents?”

He pauses, mouth agape, half-chewed crumbs on the verge of spilling forth. He swallows the entire mouthful, his throat bobbing heavily up and down before coughing hoarsely. I wait.

“Why?” he asks cautiously. “Did they call you? Please tell me that’s not happening again.”

“Huh?”

“I called, like, three weeks ago,” he pleads. “I need a life–”

“Your father is connected to a case,” I interrupt.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

Gordy glances down at his screen, typing a few more lines. “They live out in Bluff. Know where that is?”

“Nope.”

“An hour east or so.” Gordy types a bit more, punching the enter key with a sigh. “Alright. Got us tickets to head out this afternoon. I guess I’ll call and let them know we’re coming,” he adds dismally.

“Gordy is everything ok? You know I can go on my own.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have to deal with them on your own. They can be a lot.”

Marcus drops us off at the train station. It’s the old one that I recognize from Ary and Hironimus’s case. As before, the stone building bustles with activity and a surprising number of passenger trains, all on the older side, worn silver showing signs of weather wear. Inside the train, soft brown covers the padded seats. The train is mostly empty so Gordy and I opt for two seats facing each other over a table.

“Why not drive?” I ask.

“This time of year the drive is pretty icy on the way to Bluff. Plus, I like the train,” says Gordy happily gazing out the window at the sparsely populated platform.

His enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself staring out the slightly frosted window as we slowly pull away and through the city. The gentle chug of the train oscillates in time with the vibration in an experience reminiscent of being held in a rocking chair. Gordy’s big eyes appear lighter staring out the window, his pupil visible against the brown. Aimlessly he brushes a long strand of hair behind a pointed ear.

“Why’d your parents move to Bluff?” I ask

Gordy shrugs. “Dunno. I was in middle school. They wanted a change I guess. It was just before a lot of the registration and other stuff took effect so maybe they saw the writing on the wall.”

“Is Bluff different?”

“Not exactly.” He shifts, dividing his attention between the window and me. “Same laws but in a small town people care less. Especially Bluff, since it’s mostly Dryadalis. Doesn’t do much good to cut them out, you won’t have enough people to stay in business.”

Discretely I study Gordy, trying to imagine him as a gangly twelve-year old. Would he have tagged along to his father’s events? Would I have met him? On impulse I reach across the table to his sleeve. Gordy starts and jumps away.

“Sorry,” I say. No vision. Not that it means anything. I lean back and let the sway of the train seep through my skin and soften my aura. Hopefully Marcus Gibson will know more.

The Gibsons meet us at the train station, one of just three cars waiting to pick up passengers before the silver train pulls away into the darkening late afternoon. Gordy is the spitting image of his mother whose long, thin hair and pointed nose could be directly transposed onto Gordy without noticing. Mrs. Gibson embraces her son with a warm hug, planting a kiss on his forehead.

“You could really use a haircut,” she mutters, brushing his long hair from his eyes. “Are you eating enough? You look so skinny. I made enough dinner for you and your friend.”

Marcus Gibson pats his wife on the back. A deceptively tall Dryadalis with the body of a footballer, he extends a hand to me.

“You must be Gordon’s friend,” he says in a warm, rich voice like melted butter. “I’m afraid Gordon doesn’t tell us much about his city life so you’ll have to remind me of your name.”

“Rathe.” I swallow. Might as well go for it. “Rathe Adler.”

His handshake pauses and I wonder how long we will need to wait for a return train.

“What am I doing?” Mr. Gibson booms. “This shouldn’t be a handshake! Get on in for a hug!”

He pulls me into a solid hug.

“Gordon! What a surprise! I hope you’re both planning to stay the night.”

“Oh bother,” mutters Gordy with a shake of the head.

“They seem nice,” I whisper as we climb into the back seat of their truck.

“Yeah,” says Gordy. “They draw you in with that. But trust me.”

“Whatever buddy,” I laugh.

The truck bounces along the uneven road, the edge menacingly close but Mr. Gibson drives confidently, glancing over his shoulder occasionally as he yells over the engine.

“How’s city life son?”

Gordy bounces sideways as we jar off a rut. “Fine.”

In the rearview mirror Mr. Gibson makes eye contact with me.

“I read about your recovery several weeks ago. I was pleased to see it. You probably don’t recall but I was great friends with your father.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” I yell. The grinding gravel seems to swallow my words.

“It’s to be expected,” Mr. Gibson shouts. “It was a terrible accident. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” He exchanges a quick glance with Mrs. Gibson.

I have to suppress the urge to ask a lot of questions. It’s too hard to hear and in the dimming light I’m more than a little concerned we might pitch off the road if I distract Mr. Gibson any further. We turn off on a hidden drive, and the house jumps out from the tree line off the road, a modest two-story brick home. A wooden porch wraps around the front to the side of the house, overlooking a steep ravine. It’s oddly familiar but not until I’m on the porch that I realize why.

The small creek winds along the bottom of the ravine, easily traversable and water still low. From this vantage only the bioluminescent flora and fauna distinguish it from my chrysalis vision.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gibson says, pausing near me on the porch. “I love to sit out here and think. It’s a bit muddy but maybe tomorrow morning before you leave Gordon can show you the trail.”

“That would be swell,” I say.

Mrs. Gibson smiles and finds Gordy, placing a hand on his back as he slinks inside, scowl on his face.

The inside of the Gibson home has the kind of lived in smell that triggers nostalgia for childhood sleepovers. Marcus Gibson stops me in the entryway.

“You look so much like your father,” he says. Without the rumble of the engine and road his voice is rich and textured like crushed velvet. He exudes butter, charred wood, sunset yellow and orange. Intricately carved wood figurines line the counters and shelves.

“Yours?” It’s a question for the sake of manners. His creative, fidgety hands have clearly made their mark all over this house. His energy fills every inch.

“You built this,” I say. “The entire house?”

“I did,” he agrees. “We spent our life savings, but it was worth every penny.”

“Mr. Gibson, I don’t know what Gordy told you…”

“Gordy?”

“Gordon. About our trip.”

“Very little. I admit I’m curious. I wasn’t aware you two had become friends and my son has never been interested in politics. Personally I think because he can’t stand the thought of being like his parents.” The older Gibson chuckles. “So why are you here?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me about the night of the accident.”

Mr. Gibson’s warm face hardens. “It was no accident,” he says darkly.

“Why do you say that? Why does everyone think that but say nothing?”

Silence.

“Please. I need to–”

“Dinner’s ready,” Mrs. Gibson calls.

“Later,” says Mr. Gibson.

Gordy somehow manages to scowl through the entire meal while heaping multiple servings onto his plate with relish. The Gibsons make for good company with their extensive knowledge of music and literature, which we discuss at length as Gordy alternately rolls his eyes and inhales the food as if he’s never seen it before and never will again. Finally, he stops and Mrs. Gibson clears the plates and continues pouring wine for the rest of us as Gordy slips further and further down into his chair.

“Well look at the time!” says Mrs. Gibson. “Rathe, I’ll just need five minutes to make up the guest bed, but let me show you the way to the room.”

“That’s alright, we didn’t bring anything for overnight,” I say.

“Nonsense,” says Mr. Gibson. “It’s late. We have extra pajamas and toiletries you can borrow for the evening.”

I’m shuffled off too quickly to really argue so mumble my thanks to Mrs. Gibson. The guest room has an eaved ceiling that accentuates the cozy feel of the small room. A large yellow comforter covers the white framed bed, topped with a multitude of pillows. I toss several on the floor, keeping one which I hold close to my chest. Within minutes the room fades into a peaceful darkness.

The chittering of birds wakes me early, before the sun has properly risen in the sky. Weak light filters through the pines outside and past the lightweight curtain. The remote feel of the Gibson house stirs a repressed longing for the home I grew up in on my earth. The sprawling farmhouse on the edge of the mountain, grapevines terraced along the south-facing ridge. Silently I dress and slip out of the room. The house feels quiet and I’m drawn to the ravine I spotted the other night.

Mrs. Gibson is right, the ground outside is slick with mud that quickly becomes treacherous as the land steeps and pitches downward. I set my feet perpendicular to the downhill, using saplings for balance where I can. Along the ravine creek I finally spot the mulched trail and the going becomes much easier. Up close it’s fairly different from the ravine spotted during my chrysalis, although the superficial resemblance remains.

The air deep in the ravine feels heavy and thick, as if I’m still dreaming. The mist lightly coats the leaves in a shine that is just now beginning the catch the first rays of weak morning sun. The refraction fills the space with a ghostly glow. I step closer to the creek, water seeping into the front of my shoe as I step into a puddle. A whisper urges me on. I step across the creek, fully soaking my shoe in the chill water.

_You’re running out of time_.

My head snaps. Where did that come from? The water burbles against the rocks, tree branches rustle but something, nothing.

“Time for what?” I ask in a quiet voice. I wait, feeling increasingly stupid. This déjà vu is making me think I’m hearing things.

_It won’t last_.

“What? What won’t last?” I ask louder. The trees and creek don’t answer. Dirt tumbles near my foot and Mr. Gibson half-steps, half-slides down the ravine path.

“Good morning Rathe,” he says with surprise, probably at the fact that I’m standing in the middle of the creek. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah I like the early morning,” I say. He nods approvingly.

“I wish you’d found me. I would have lent you some mud boots.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I respond, stepping back onto the trail. “Actually I was hoping to talk to you this morning.”

Mr. Gibson nods, placing his hand on my back. “Let’s just go a little further on.”

We walk for a couple minutes in the pleasantly brightening light. The creek widens and deepens. Mr. Gibson crouches alongside, dragging his hand in the water. Checking fish traps I realize. He sighs heavily as he stands, shaking the water from his hand.

“You want to know about that night I presume.”

“That’s correct.”

“I don’t mean to be vague,” he says. “One can never be too careful. Even in Bluff.”

I stay quiet.

“I assume you know about me,” he says. “How I was your father’s advisor.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

The question catches me off guard.

“You, um, became friends during a long flight,” I say, trying to recall the specifics from Parker’s looped writing.

“Sure, that’s how we met,” Mr. Gibson agrees. “But not why we became such good friends.” He pauses, gazing up the ridge towards the rising sun. “Your father had a gift. He called it seeing beyond. He described the world as a flood of sensations, colors, textures, aromas. It allowed him to know things about people. See connections. Almost like a super-charged Leporem.”

“Empathia.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” If my father never shared his alien past I’m not about to get into it.

“I worked well with your father because I spot connections. Put two people that have never met in close proximity, and I can tell you, in abstract terms, what their future holds. Strangers, lovers, friends, allies, enemies.”

“I see,” I say curiously. “And what does that make us?”

Mr. Gibson chuckles. “Other people, unfortunately. But I did observe one interesting thing from you last night.” He stops suddenly, turning to face me. “My wife has met Rathe Adler at least a dozen times. So why did I spot your connection?” He regards me neutrally. I’m not under suspicion yet.

“I am Rathe Adler,” I say. “But I’m from another earth. An alternate universe. The Rathe Adler you knew died in that accident.”

The sun has crested the ridge and light fills the narrow valley, birds twitter the morning news. Mr. Gibson squints into the light.

“Do you know what happens to unused potential energy?” he asks in a change of topic.

“Um… It’s stored. Available for later use.”

“Correct. Can you imagine what happens if one were to release hundreds, thousands of stored potential energy all at once? Say a stack of logs that I rolled uphill and then held in place against gravity.”

“If you let go it would make a big mess I suppose.” Truthfully I’m getting more lost by the minute. Mr. Gibson grins. I’m not hiding it well.

“You’re not following.”

“Not even a bit.”

“So you are from another world,” he says. “On this earth, every human is born with innate potential. Chrysalis is, was, our way of ensuring every individual could realize that potential. But some humans, mostly those that manifest invisible skills, the less obvious powers, became jealous of other races of humans. They managed to outlaw chrysalis characterizing it as an archaic tradition with no real meaning.  However, it has resulted in an increasing store of unrealized, untapped potential energy. Like the logs, just because it’s not doing something, doesn’t mean it’s not there. For the past decade that energy has been building up, increasing at exponential rates.”

He pauses. “Imagine what one could do with that kind of power.”

“Anything.” The word slips out without thinking.

Mr. Gibson nods and glances at his watch. “We should head back. Don’t want to miss breakfast and I imagine Gordon will want to be on his way.”

I jog a couple steps to catch up.

“Are you saying potential energy caused the accident? That doesn’t make any sense. If it was some random event wouldn’t we be seeing more of them as the potential energy increases?”

“You’re still assuming it’s an accident,” he replies. “In a condition of stasis, such as we’re in, potential energy remains just that. Potential.”

“Someone’s figured out how to tap into the potential energy,” I say. “Who?”

“Ironically, someone who themselves must have completed chrysalis. Amongst those that benefited from your family’s destruction there are only a few.”

_You’re running out of time_.

The whisper feels more urgent as we pass back through the original portion of the ravine heading back to the house. A gray stone, half-submerged in the water calls to me. The mossy side flakes, leaving bits of dirt against my fingertip.

_“You need to hurry.”_

_She’s wearing Marcus’s leather jacket, this younger, alternate version of myself._

_“I can only help you so much. Then she’ll take over. You can’t let her have this.”_

_“Have what?” I ask._

_“Your power. My power. I’ve gifted it to you but it won’t last. It’s borrowed. A remnant.”_

_She holds the stone I carry in my pocket. The sunlight strikes it directly, splitting into multicolored beams of light. With a flick of the wrist the stone and light vanishes, darkening the ravine into early evening._

_I lie on the creek but on the couch that is my bed at Fancy, visions within visions overlapping. Red pools from my gut, brighter than the embers at the core of a fire, Gordy and Marcus helplessly trying to stem the tide. But it’s no use, for I’ve seen that pattern of blood before and I know it’s fatal._

_“They brought me back,” I say. “That bullet didn’t kill me. It’s why I left my earth.”_

_“This is only temporary,” she says. “The core of that body is still in decay. You don’t fully exist, just as I don’t. Soon we will be in the same place.”_

_I swallow drily._

_“How long do I have?”_


	14. My Bad Side

Gordy won’t stop talking on the train ride back to Port City, but fortunately his monologue doesn’t seem to require much from me to respond. I have too much to digest. Mr. Gibson’s veiled hints about the accident, or incident as it were, and the strange vision that interrupted our return to the house. My thoughts ping-pong between the two, unable to focus on either one and paralyzing me with indecision. I feel my core tearing into the Rathe I am and the one I replaced, somehow different yet the same. It overwhelms the cramped space inside my skull. A groan fills my ears and it take a moment to register that its mine. The burbling background of Gordy’s chatter ceases.

“Rathe?” he asks slowly. “Are you ok? You’re looking really pale.”

I’m not feeling well at all. My stomach lurches out of sync with the rocking of the train. The landscape zipping past moves at different speeds, some too quickly and others too slow. My forehead feels damp. I’m hot and cold.

“Gordy…” I say, standing. I can’t breathe. I desperately need to get off this moving train, breath the open air. The people here exude too much heat, too many unregulated emotions and I’m spinning out of control. The auras swirl and mix, forming brown spots on the edge of my vision that creep towards the center.

Gordy grabs my arm as I fall, preventing me from blacking out entirely. The auras around us spike with panic and I feel my gut heave with the inability to process so much.

“Air,” I gasp.

Eyes wide, Gordy sweeps me up in his arms and carries me to the small space in between the train cars. Despite it being a smaller space, no one can directly watch and the less insulated chamber allows for a refreshing breeze. Gordy bends his knees to my height, allowing me to rest with my arm over his shoulder.

The breeze slipping in around the door clears my head.

“If we want to sit we should get back,” Gordy says.

I shake my head. I’d rather stand.

“You said we had a case?” I manage.

Gordy’s face brightens.

“Right! It’s been awhile and we’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he says. He clears his throat. “Kind of strange. Neander woman wrote in about her son.”

“Missing persons again?” It feels good to focus on something external, as if my sense of self can sneak back into my body if I don’t watch too closely.

“No. Not exactly. He’s here, but in her words, different. Like he’s become someone else.”

“Hm.” I shift, curling my toes inside my shoe. Nice and solid. “Could be interesting.”

“Told you!” Gordy leans against the door to the cabin. “I saved the details on my phone. We can head straight there once we get into Port City.”

“Thanks Gordy.”

“What for?”

I shrug, slightly embarrassed. Sometimes I’m not sure if his spacey, doofishness is an act. Somehow he always seems to know how to cheer me up.

During the cab ride from the train station to the house I review the case submission. The notes are sparse but intriguing.

A small stocky Neander woman, air neatly spun into a bun on the top of her head answers the door.

“Can I help you?” she asks suspiciously. Gordy steps forward and she relaxes visibly at the sight of the lanky Dryadalis. “Sorry,” she says. “I thought you might be with law enforcement.”

“Anonymous Mysteries,” I say, extending a hand. Her eyes widen in surprise followed by relief.

“Please.” She ushers us into the small, clean home, brushing imaginary dust from the immaculate couch as she gestures us to take a seat. I feel almost bad sitting in my unwashed clothes covered in who-knows-what from the old train.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“Tea would be amazing,” I say.

Within minutes I’m holding a delicate teacup of steaming liquid in my hand. The Neander holds one as well, but more to make me feel comfortable than anything I suspect. She raises it to her lips a few times without sipping before setting it down on a coaster and forgetting it. It’s a nice floral mix, dominated by rose scent. The flavor is nice and I smile appreciatively, feeling the warm liquid brighten my core.

“What can we do for you Mrs.…?”

“Bentley,” she says. “I’m so glad you responded.” Her hands twist around each other. “It’s my son, Edmund. I came home a few days ago and he was…different. I mean, he’s still Edmund,” she corrects, flustered. “But, um.”

“If you can speak plainly it will help,” I say gently.

Mrs. Bentley bites her lip, looking at the floor. “I love my son,” she says. “As any mother does. But like any child, he has his good and…less desirable qualities.” She shakes her head. “It’s as if everything good has been wiped away. All that remains are his…”

“Bad ones?” finishes Gordy. I shoot him a look. He shrugs.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Bentley, seemingly unoffended by his blunt language.

“Did Edmund do anything unusual the day he seemed to change?” I ask.

“Not really. Went to school. A field trip I think. I remember him saying something about it.”

Gordy and I exchange a glance.

“Where?”

“City hall.”

“Can we talk to Edmund?” I ask.

“That’s the thing,” she says, wringing her hands again. “He’s run away. We fought last night and he said horrible things and left. I haven’t heard from him since.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I just want my son back.”

“We will get him back,” says Gordy.

“We will see what we can learn,” I clarify.

We’re quiet as we leave.

“It’s not much to go on,” I say.

“That’s what makes it our case,” says Gordy happily. “So, city hall?”

“Looks like,” I say.

Rocks rumble in my belly anxiously. Oddly it’s Parker’s voice I hear in my head, telling me I’m being stupid stepping into the lion’s den. After hearing all about the Mayor’s impact on Port City’s politics over the past decade, and contentious relationship with my parents I can’t help hoping I get the chance to see her. Face to face. Even if it means some danger. I laugh a little under my breath. Parker has no idea what I’ve been through. I’m not afraid of some local politician. I’ve survived two far more dangerous worlds than this. As long as I’m at city hall, I’m going to be damn sure I get a good look at Mayor Townsend.

City Hall sits back from the street, in a style reminiscent of a bygone era. Dozens of walking paths cut through the manicured grass lawn, as if wanting to ensure that no one would be tempted to step on the delicate grass. A bronze statue, worn at the nose to a golden shine, adorns the front entrance. A circular counter helpfully labelled “Information” rests to the immediate right of the lobby. I beeline for the counter.

“Hello, I understand there was a field trip here a few days ago,” I say. The receptionist smells of old coffee grounds and the color blue with hints of violet; distraction, and itchy pantyhose. I see my own aura like a hand, extending and wrapping its fingers around until I’ve fully encompassed her.

“Yes,” she says. I have her full attention now.

“We need to know where they went. Who they saw.”

“I’m not entirely sure. They took a tour and might have seen a few folks on that. Then they did a meet and greet with the Mayor and some members of the City Council. Held a mock hearing in that room there,” she adds, pointing across the way.

“Where would one go for a tour?”

She points down the hall. A sign in the center of the lobby announces tours every half-hour during the week. I retract my controlling energy. The receptionist appears dazed, but quickly returns to her frantic state as we retreat.

I glance at my watch. We just missed the last tour. Now seems as good a time as any to track down the Mayor. However, it’s increasingly obvious that bringing Gordy may not have been the best idea. Tall even for a Dryadalis, he towers over everyone and the looks we’re receiving suggest that non-Sapiens may not be the most welcome in this building.

“Hey Gordy, maybe I scout here and we check in this afternoon?” I suggest.

“Sure,” he says amiably. He slinks out, either not noticing the dirty looks or refusing to acknowledge them. I turn into a stairwell and begin to wander.

The building is laid out with three wings and three floors. One wing appears dedicated to councilmembers and their staff, another to the Mayor, and the third for other senior city officials. The Mayor’s office, located at the far end of its wing, is difficult to miss. The tiled floor transitions into a thick blue carpet at the entrance and wide-open double doors give the appearance of openness, although the only portion visible is yet another receptionist and waiting area.

Easy as it would be to talk my way past her, I’d prefer to avoid anyone remembering me if possible. I retreat down the hallway until a young man wearing a suit and walking briskly hurries past. I reach, brushing the back of his jacket with emotional suggestion.

“Run!” he yells, dropping the folders in his arm. “We need to leave now! Run for your lives!”

It’s inelegant but works, as confused people begin to move, and their movement creates a ripple of panic and urgency even more powerful than the starting drop of energy. The receptionist seems to be on the phone, but stands and moves quickly, grabbing items and dropping them nervously before she finally hangs up and slings her purse over one shoulder. The two individuals waiting in the Mayor’s lobby space have already cleared out.

No one remains to watch, but I walk as quietly as I can up to the double doors and onto the blue carpet. It absorbs sound, meaning anyone further inside probably won’t come rushing out. The thick oak door is closed and emits no sound when I press my ear. Heart pounding, I turn the brass handle.

The Mayor rests with her elbows on the large desk, eyes fixed on the door as if she’s been waiting. The walls are lined with dark floor to ceiling bookcases and the window behind the desk provides a stunning view of the City Gardens directly behind City Hall. Being backlit by the window, Mayor Townsend’s features are difficult to make out beyond the short, dark, curly hair, thick glasses, and slightly plump figure. She stands and though not particularly fit, occupies a fair bit of space both in height and girth that lends her an intimidating stature.

“Rathe Adler,” she says. Her voice rasps like that of a longtime smoker. “I’ve been wondering when we’d meet.”

“I…what?” I’m deeply confused and disoriented, and not just by her unexpected response. Her aura shifts impossibly between an infinite array or colors, textures, and smells. I can’t tell what’s borrowed and what belongs to her.

“Your recovery was nothing short of miraculous.” Low vibrations hum as she speaks, distracting like a twitch that keeps one awake or an uncontrolled muscle spasm. “I know many people were pleased.”

“I have a feeling you weren’t one of them,” I retort.

“Oh Rathe, that hurts. Why would you say that? You’ve never even met me.”

Her words cut through my skin like ice. _She knows_. Somehow, she can tell. That or she’s trying to throw me off. But it’s too late for I feel deeply unnerved by her presence and it’s clear she can tell.

“Why don’t you like my family?”

“I never said that,” she replies, moving from her desk towards the large window. “But I will cop to being a little jealous of them. I mean, here I’ve been leading this city for over a decade, doing actual work. And yet somehow I find I’m still in competition with Ethar Adler and his family. What’s it they say? You can’t win against the dead.”

She turns from the window to face me. “And now you’re here. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

“I’m not interested in politics,” I say.

“Of course not,” she sympathizes. “That would be too crass. But it will happen if enough people want it. How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Why should I care?” Discomfort has been replaced with disgust. The most powerful person in the city whining because the people don’t love her. Give me a break.

Her face contorts, turning ugly in anger. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says. “But that’s fine. I’ve been preparing for something like this.”

“Something like what?” I don’t even try to hide my disgust anymore. “You know what? I don’t actually care. I’m here because something is happening to someone you saw as part of a school field trip. Edmund Bentley. The name ring a bell?”

Fortunately my pivot appears to have been sharp enough to change Mayor Townsend’s focus. Her next accusation dies on her tongue as her brow furrows.

“I meet lots of people,” she replies, vaguely waving her hand.

“Yeah I bet,” I say, beginning to move about the room. “You always meet them in here?”

The bookshelves appear to hold an impersonal collection. City records, outdated legal texts someone probably picked up at bargain price, old edition encyclopedias. They all have a nice worn look but close inspection reveals a layer of dust on the top of the book jackets. Knick-knacks of more personal value seem to rest across her desk, mostly figures carved into a dark gray stone.

“Oftentimes,” she says. “It’s got a nice air to it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mmm,” I say non-committally.

“What are these?” Boldly, I grab the closest figure.

“Don’t touch that!” she yells. Her giant hand slaps mine into the table and I finally get a sharp image of her aura. Rock face slick with water, icy scraping of skin against a hard surface, ripped knuckles, the scent of blood and stone, misty air that urges one to climb up, the empty sensation of oblivion…

My hand retracts, throbbing with pain. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from cursing. Carefully she replaces the figure, picking up another one and regarding it closely. Her eyes lock with mine and I feel myself falling from the wet rock face as her hand seems to reach into my chest. Pain fills every cell as I split in two, body searing with pain against the icy cliff face.

*

I fall back, gasping on the floor.

“What was that?” I say. I pat my chest, half-expecting my hand to come away bloodied but it’s clean. I’m completely uninjured.

“Please leave,” Mayor Townsend says. “Next time you wish to visit, I’d appreciate if you made an appointment.”

Anger flares from the source of the imagined wound, but this is not the time for a fight. I need to understand what just happened, what power does she have. Reluctantly I rise to my feet and back out. The Mayor sits at her desk, a small, cruel smile on her lips.

I stalk away from City Hall, anger and resentment trailing me, building like a wave. I feel the energy ripple outwards, touching the Sapiens and other people out and about, but I don’t care. For once let them deal with my emotional energy instead of the other way around.

Fancy has just opened for the afternoon so the bar is empty. I’m a bottle into the night before I start to feel like myself again. Gordy slinks into view and ambles over. A wave of annoyance rises from my belly and I shift away from him, as if I could pretend to have not noticed his approach.

“Hey Rathe,” he drawls, looking aimlessly around the club. “What’d you learn?”

His nonchalance grates even more than I expected. Is he really not aware how difficult it is to work with him? His lack of urgency, obvious non-Sapiens status, and so on.

“Not a lot,” I reply shortly. Hopefully he’ll get the hint and leave.

“Well I made some progress here,” he says. “I hacked into the city’s traffic camera system and applied facial recognition. I’ve gotten a few hits on Edmund Bentley but…” He shakes his head, pausing to take a gulp of beer. “It’s weird, man.”

“This year,” I growl into my glass. I grip the base tightly, holding myself from squeezing to the point of breakage.

“He’s showing up in these different places, like, places across town but the time stamps are minutes or even seconds apart. And he keeps changing clothes and such.”

My patience is gone. I chug down the half-glass of wine and stand. “Great,” I say. “Since you found nothing. I’m going to go have some fun. Please,” I add, as he starts to stand. “Don’t follow.”

Gordy’s face falls and I have to admit it’s more than a little satisfying to see the blow land so squarely. I can’t help wanting to twist the knife a little further, just to watch his crestfallen face droop even more.

“You know,” I say, turning. “I think it’s best if we stop working together. Let’s face it; you bring nothing to the table, and you’re a liability when we go out.”

“What do you mean?” His voice is so quiet he might be whispering.

I lean in and whisper in a loud imitation of him. “You probably haven’t noticed,” I say, “cause you’re just so chill and laid back. But people here don’t really like your kind. Dryadalis.” I make a pinching gesture over my ears and he quickly cups his hands to his pointed eartips.

“What did I do?” he asks.

“Nothing, Gord. It’s just what you are.”

And with that final blow I know he’s down for good. I don’t wait to see his reaction but move through the circular tables to a seat right in front of the stage. I’ve lived above a strip club for months now and so rarely take the time to appreciate the show.

Janine is performing and I’m drawn to her gentle curves. Standing, I reach up to show my appreciation, tucking a bill into a strap. She gasps lightly as the sexual energy moves into her aura. I smile. This show is about to get much better. She stares at me hungrily as she continues with the routine. It’s not just me that notices the change. Other patrons can also feel the heat and crowd the area, but Janine’s eyes don’t leave my face. She pants lightly as the music ends, her breasts heaving gently. I slide out of my seat to the backstage area, and she also slips backstage, even though I know she is part of the next number.

As she comes offstage I scarcely have to wait before her lips are on mine, hot with my desire. My hands trace the curves of her torso down to her hips and Janine pulls me even closer into her nearly-naked body.

“Rathe! Janine, what the hell!”

Marcus stares at us, mouth agape and cheeks red. He marches forward, separating us.

“Janine, go lie down,” he says firmly. Calming blue flows from his fingertips as he directs her. The heat from her body cools and Janine shakes her head in confusion.

“What…?”

“Lie down for a bit,” soothes Marcus. Obligingly she heads towards the back. Marcus turns to me, his eyes full of fury, silver with cracked edges of shiny black.

“Angry is a good look for you,” I say. “Although it was not cool of you to interrupt a private moment.”

“What. Are. You. Doing,” he says through clenched teeth. “Bill is out there about to have a conniption over Janine’s performance and you distracting customers and now you’re using it to manipulate her–”

“Since when were you such a prude?” I interrupt.

“Excuse me?”

“First, I was improving the show, everyone knows it. Second, what’s the point of being an empath if we can’t us it for a little fun? I know you feel the same.”

“I do not,” responds Marcus empathically.

“Right. So Kathryn just…”

“Kathryn’s not part of this.”

I grin. Tender spot identified. Time to keep poking.

“You’re telling me, you haven’t empathed Kathryn even once to get something you wanted,” I say. “A little kiss, a trip to the park…”

Marcus’s face turns even more red, the blush from his neck rising to meet the spots on his cheeks.

“No,” he says, breathing hard. “Not like that. It wasn’t like that.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I say. “You get it. These people, they need our help. We’re not hurting anyone.”

Marcus backs away. “What’s wrong with you,” he says. “This isn’t you…”

“Maybe this is finally me,” I retort. “Maybe I’ve finally gotten rid of the dead weight, and I mean that literally by the way, that was your sister. Maybe, for the first time you’re seeing earth-38 Rathe.”

“No,” Marcus says firmly. “You’re my sister. I don’t care what earth you came from, or how you got here. You’re my family.”

“Well that’s unfortunate, because, I don’t have a brother.” It’s almost more fun to watch break Marcus down than Gordy. I step closer, feeling the powerful, vindictive energy I’ve held in for so long swirl around me like armor.

“I never wanted a brother,” I say in a low voice. “And seeing as your sister willingly got in a car that she knew would crash…I have to conclude that the Rathe of this world never wanted a little brother either. She preferred to die than stick around for you.”

Marcus stumbles back as if hit, the red replaced by pale white as he searches my face. I’m willing to let my aura reflect how I really feel.

“You actually believe that,” he says.

*

I stagger up the stairs to the quad, letting myself collapse into a pile on my unmade bed. Sometimes I wish I could cry as easily as some of the girls do. Right now feels like a good time for a cry. My sister has been mean to me before, it’s really a requirement of a sibling, but she’s never been nasty. That’s the only way to describe what happened. First manipulating Janine for kicks, and then…

 _I never wanted a brother_.

The worst part isn’t the words. Words don’t always mean what people say. But Rathe meant it. She believes it. She’s offered no way for me to refute her truth. The family I longed for, ached for is a lie. A beautiful, rotten lie that’s starting to stink, and yet I can’t bear to throw it out.

I bury my face into the pillow, longing for tears, for some kind of release from this horrible feeling. The sound of footsteps catches my ear. This time of night everyone should be down in the club. A tall lean figure lumbers into the quad, not noticing my crumpled state. Gordy curls his body into a ball and I hear the faint muffled sound of a sob. I desperately wish I’d said something or made a noise when he entered, for it feels weird to announce myself now.

Quietly I clear my throat. Nothing. I shuffle my body towards the end of the bed. Maybe I can slip out of the room and give Gordy some space. My foot kicks the end and the sniffling stops.

“Marc?” His voice sounds high and soft, particularly childlike.

“Yeah?” I say, using the opportunity to climb down more gracefully.

“Can I–”

“Sorry, I was just on my way back–”

“You first,” I say, embarrassed.

“Um. Can I talk to you? About Rathe?” asks Gordy.

“Of course.”

“Is Rathe alright?” Gordy asks.

Definitely not in my book, but I’m not about to bad-mouth my sister.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Gordy shifts. “She, um. Well, she was really mean tonight. Said a bunch of things that…I’ve never heard her say.” Gordy raises his eyes, looking directly at me. “I think she might have been affected by something in this case.”

“You have a case?”

“Yeah.” Gordy’s eyes widen as he straightens his posture. “I know what’s happening,” he says in a whisper. “To Edmund, to Rathe.”

“What? Who’s Edmund?”

Gordy stares at me earnestly. “It’s why he keeps showing up in different places. They’ve been split in two,” he says excitedly. “It seems to be dividing personality between good and bad. Here we have a bad Rathe, all of her worst impulses. Somewhere out there is a good Rathe.” Gordy dives for his laptop, flipping open the top. “I can backtrack Edmund’s locations and maybe that will help us find good Rathe!”

“So that wasn’t Rathe downstairs?” I say. I’m a bit lost but the idea that the person who denied wanting a brother might not be Rathe brings me some hope.

“It is, but sort of a Rathe-on-a-bad-day deal. If she’d gone a different way in life. Evil Rathe.”

“Alright, how do we un-evil her?”

“I don’t know,” says Gordy, pausing his typing. “I’m going to need your help for that part.”


	15. Two for One

Coughing I sit up, that horrible ripping sensation still fresh in my mind. The wind seems to cut right through my clothes and an appalling smell percolates through the ground below me.

The Mayor’s office has disappeared. In fact, not a single building lies in immediate sight. The ground beneath rolls and heaves as I shift to standing. Trash crinkles underfoot and my shoe squishes in something I’d rather not look too closely at. The city dump. Awesome.

Gingerly I try to find the most stable pieces of trash on which to clamber down, only to realize I’m not sure how to exit. At this point I can be fairly certain the smell has absorbed through my clothes. Who knows how long I was lying there. Long enough for the Mayor to have someone drive me out here and leave without notice. From the top of the pile I can make out the fence that encompasses the area, along with a building that hopefully houses employees and a phone.

I move quickly, chilled to the bone since I seem to have lost my jacket somewhere along the way. The warehouse grows in size and I stumble through the open garage door. Three men in dark green jumpsuits look up in surprise.

“Do you have a phone?”

The operator connects me to Fancy but no one picks up. The line rings over and over. I county fifty rings before I give up.

“Hey, you really can’t be here,” says one of the guys. “We could get in trouble, and if the city finds out you slept in the dump, there’s a fine for that.” At least he has the decency to look ashamed as he says it. As if someone sleeping in the city dump could pay a fine.

“I’m going,” I say. “I just need directions.” I draw on decency, sympathy for this one last favor, reaching my aura to his.

“Sorry, lady,” he replies. His energy remains static. He’s out of patience and I seem unable to influence it.

I sniff my sleeve discretely. Maybe it’s the smell throwing off my ability. I need a shower. The men fidget near the phone in tight conversation. I don’t need to be an empath to know they are debating if they should call me in, so I scoot, taking my best guess as to which direction on the road will bring me back to town.

The graveled road features a number of muddy puddles which the truck traffic seems to enjoy hitting for the sake of flinging the odd pedestrian with dirty water. At least it can’t be making me smell any worse. I duck into the first gas station I pass, doing my best attempt at a sink shower and trying to ignore the stench from the toilet. I emerge marginally cleaner, but feeling even more gross, as if I’ve just slathered on new bacteria over the muck.

In the main portion of the store I attempt to discretely study a map, but my disheveled appearance catches the eye of the clerk, who also seems immune to my attempts to sway him for some sympathy.

“Directions?” I ask as pleasantly as I can manage.

He points at the door.

“To town? Port City?”

“If you don’t have money, get out,” he says.

I follow the follow of traffic as best I can, turning down the roads that appear more heavily traveled, hopefully leading to more people that will be more willing to help. My shoes squelch with who-knows-what liquid and my fingers numbly circle my shoulders, uselessly trying to hold in what little heat my filthy clothes retain. Where the hell did the Mayor send me?

Miles later and I still have no idea. I might be walking in circles for all I know. The sun dips low over the horizon, bringing with it a brisk wind that forewarns below freezing temperatures overnight. I need to keep moving forward, for as long as I can.

I can’t stop shivering. The cold isn’t just the air but under my skin. I feel it seeping into the marrow of every bone, chilling it like the artic, to the point where portions will never unfreeze again. If anything, the outside air feels warmer than my insides. Likely it’s these damn clothes holding all the cold air in, making this so much worse. Seized by this revelation I begin to strip, peeling away the smelly, rotten garments. The warm air outside can’t soak into my skin but if I just rest; just close my eyes for a minute maybe it will all go away…Maybe I can finally be warm again.

*

I suppress a yawn. Gordy’s been typing away for ten minutes now without an update. He sighs happily and I straighten. Finally, something that will let us help Rathe.

“Edmund first appeared about a day after the field trip,” Gordy says.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” says Gordy. “But I bet that’s when we’ll find Rathe. Other Rathe.”

“What about bad Rathe?”

“I’m guessing she left,” Gordy says, back to his typing. “Like Edmund.”

“That seems problematic.”

Gordy stops. “How so?”

“Well if you’re right, and Rathe has been split in two. It seems we need a way to get them back together. I’m betting they can’t survive long as separate entities.” As I say it I’m overcome with conviction. Rathe’s aura was…incomplete when we spoke. A shadow of her usual self.

“The same is probably true of this Edmund guy,” I add. “Maybe we should find him first.”

Gordy appears torn. “Maybe but…”

“Buddy, trust me. If this kid was split days ago, he’s running out of time. We can’t do anything for Rathe until she shows up. And you know she’ll call us first chance she gets.”

Reluctantly Gordy nods. Good. He doesn’t need to know the other reason I want to find this kid first. Finding the two halves will be the easy part. Then we need to put them back together. I can feel that they need to be joined to survive, but how…I’m hoping I can work that out once we have two Edmunds in hand.

“Let’s go,” I say, clapping Gordy on the back. He hesitates.

“Rathe said I drag her down because I bring too much attention to us in public,” Gordy says, tucking the tips of his ears under his hair self-consciously.

“That wasn’t really her,” I soothe.

“No, I mean…” Gordy sighs. “I get that Rathe would never say that, but, but…I think she’s right. I think that might be something she’s thought before. And it’s not wrong.”

“What are you saying, man? I can’t do this on my own.” Panic rises from deep in my gut, panic I didn’t even realize I had. I’ve gone from being uninvolved, to a partner, to leading this damn operation in the span of less than twenty minutes.

“The earpieces,” Gordy says, rummaging through his stuff. “I bought these a few weeks ago but haven’t used them yet. Everything you need I can communicate from here.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, taking the little black bud. I recall the guys playing with these, sending messages across the house. But across the city?

“I’m sure.”

If asked an hour earlier if I’d rather go with Gordy or alone, I would have said alone. But heading out alone is an entirely different matter. It’s uncomfortable and I feel far too conspicuous. No wonder Rathe always brought him along.

_I wish Kathryn could join me_.

The thought flits by and I hasten my step hoping it will pass. I can’t help that when I’m near Kathryn, when I’m near anyone, I exert some emotional control over them. It’s in my nature, and for the most part, harmless. Done merely to regulate so my own energy doesn’t spike too quickly in any direction.

_So you admit you’ve influenced Kathryn._ Rathe’s voice intrudes on my justifying explanation.

“No,” I say aloud. A stranger glances my way before flipping their collar up and sidestepping. Great. Now I’m the guy talking to himself.

“Everything alright?” Shit. I forgot about the comm in my ear. It must still be on from our test.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Any update on location? I’m closing in.” Gordy clicks his tongue in my ear. I cringe. If this is going to be a regular thing he’s got to break that habit.

“Two minutes ago,” Gordy says after a pause. “Corner of South Main and Lawn.”

“I’m nearly there.” I pick up the pace to a light trot, rounding the corner of Main onto Lawn Street.

I don’t know what I expected, but for some reason the completely normal scene catches me off guard. Cars wait their turn to drive, pedestrians cross at the crosswalk and everything feels so very ordinary. A person has been split in two, wandering around downtown Port City and no one seems to notice.

“Gordy, what am I looking for?” I ask slowly, scanning the foot traffic. Suddenly I spot it a block away, an aura that shimmers and fades incompletely. I break into a run, wishing more than ever that Gordy were here to catch this guy before he vanishes around the corner.

“From monitoring this should be our good one,” says Gordy.

Well, that explains why there isn’t a scene. According to Mrs. Bentley this will be the quiet, polite Edmund she knows. The one described by his teachers on the school records Gordy hacked.

Edmund turns the corner and cursing, I try to pick up the pace. I round the block with my lungs about to burst. The crack against my skull seems to echo in my ears for several seconds before the sharp pain registers.

“Sonofa!”

I drop to the ground, hand over my eye, vision blurry. The little fucker holds a whip-sharp stick aloft, threatening another swing.

“Why are you following me?” he demands.

I moan, rolling into all fours. If this leaves a mark on my face I’m going to kill this kid.

“Edmund Bentley,” I groan.

“What?”

“Edmund Bentley. Is that your name?” Stiffly I stand. Yeah. That welt’s gonna leave a mark.

“Who wants to know?” he asks, tightening his grip.

“Whoa, whoa. I’m here to help,” I say, hands up. “I know what’s going on with you.”

“How can you? I don’t even know what’s going on!”

“Well, let me guess, and if I’m right how about you drop that improvised weapon there and have a nice walk with me?”

Edmund’s eyes dart to the sides as he shifts. I’ll take that as a yes.

“You went on a field trip,” I begin. “I’m guessing at some point you saw Mayor Townsend. You woke up far outside of town and have been making your way back. How am I doing?”

“Ok, so far.”

“Great.” Gingerly I touch the swollen eye. Oh man that’s puffy. I bet I look like shit. “Since you’ve been walking you feel…off. There’s a piece of you missing but you can’t find it, it’s just out of reach.”

Slowly Edmund lowers the stick. Awesome. Making progress.

“Now listen close Edmund because this is the part you don’t know. You are missing a part of yourself. The Mayor split you into two people, dividing your personality traits. This version, well, think of it as Good Edmund. You want to do the right thing, stay out of trouble, and I’m guessing you’re the thinker too,” I add.

“All of which sounds great. But the thing is, you need both halves. I’m trying to track you down. Other you. And I need you – this you – to come with me.”

The stick clatters to the ground. Edmund breathes heavily.

“Alright,” he says. “Can I get you some ice?”

“That would be swell.”

*

Everything smells strongly of antiseptic, so overpowering my first instinct is to vomit. I bend over the side of the bed and heave, but nothing comes. Blue and white tile lines the floor in a pattern I’ve seen before. The first pattern I recall from this earth. I lean back, contemplating my next step.

Good news, I ended up in Port City. Bad news, I’m at the hospital, which means the Mayor and her cronies will know exactly how to find me if they’re so inclined. I snap my wrists against the zip-tie restraints but to no avail. I’m not even sure I should leave if I could, I’m still feeling quite cold and decidedly nauseous. The white curtain around the bed, slides aside.

“Parker,” I say in surprise. “Oh gods, it’s good to see you.”

Parker opens her mouth and closes it, a look of confusion.

“Are you ok?” she finally asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “The Mayor did some crazy thing to me. Knocked me out, I woke up in a dump, a literal dump, hence the smell. Then walked for miles and…I don’t know.”

“You were picked up,” Parker says neutrally. She approaches and flips a pocketknife. With an efficient notch the ties snap off. I rub my wrists gratefully.

“We got a call about an intoxicated individual. When the cops went they found you slumped on the side of the road, hypothermic, in nothing but your underclothes.” Parker’s cheeks flush slightly and she quickly rubs her forehead, talking faster.

“I had a feeling you might not want your location to become public knowledge,” Parker continues. “I’m here to bust you out. If you want.”

She swirls with her usual sweet vinegar, honey mustard, collard greens, home-cooked meal from a Southern kitchen aroma. Comforting, dependable, pushing on in spite of the lack of credit she receives.

“Thanks Dana.”

She freezes.

“Excuse me?”

“I said thanks.”

“You called me Dana.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“Yes, but you’ve only ever called me Parker,” she responds.

“Well, I thought I’d try it out,” I say. “This is what friends do. I figured it deserved first-name recognition.”

Parker bites her lip. “Fair enough, Rathe.”

Her cheeks flush again. “See,” I say. “That wasn’t so bad?”

The fluster brings out the sweetness in her aura, lightens the color to something more akin to the setting sun across the jungle.

“Can you help me up?” I ask.

“What?”

“I need to get out of here, but I’m still not feeling very well,” I admit.

“Of course,” she says cautiously.

I sling an arm over her shoulder as I slide off the bed. Parker dips as she absorbs my weight, seeming surprised but strong enough to support me. Exhausted from that bit of exertion I lean against her panting for a few seconds. I can feel Parker’s heart beating faster than usual.

“Too much?” I ask.

“No, no,” she says quickly. “I just didn’t realize how ill you were.” She swims with embarrassment. I probably still smell a bit like the dump.

“Sorry about the smell.”

Parker laughs awkwardly, heat rising from her neck.

“I brought, um, clothes for, um…” Parker waves her free hand a bit wildly. I bite the inside of my cheek. Her nervousness is absolutely adorable.

“I’ll change,” I finish for her. Feeling better after a moment to adjust to standing, I release my hold on Parker. The loose pants and hoodie fit me fairly well. The lingering odor suggests these are Parker’s. She avoids my eye, gesturing for me to follow her into the hallway. Nurses and other hospital staff zip to and from the rooms. Spotting a gap, we dash down the hall into the stairwell, pausing for a breath behind the closed door. I follow Parker down to the parking garage and she opens the door for me to a small yellow convertible. Much flashier than I would have expected from someone as tightly wound as her.

“Nice wheels,” I comment.

“It was my grandfather’s,” she says, that nice pink color returning to her cheeks. She smooths an imaginary strand of hair back into her ponytail.

Parker turns the key with a relish that suggests the car is something more than a convenient hand-me-down, gunning the engine in such a way as to confirm my suspicion. Turning to the window I grin at my reflection. Parker’s got some personality after all.

*

“Where to now G?”

Edmund trails behind me.

“Are you talking to yourself?” he asks nervously.

“No, it’s, uh, my partner,” I say pointing to my earpiece. Gordy garbles something I miss over my reassurance to Edmund.

“Come again?” I say. Gordy repeats the address.

We walk quickly through the chill morning.

“I’m sorry about hitting you,” Edmund says. “I’ve had some people following me.”

“Yeah.” I touch the rising welt, trying not to think about the possibility of permanent scarring. “It’s an excuse for my girlfriend to take care of me,” I say.

“Girlfriend?” Edmunds seems interested and I want him to relax.

“She’s swell. A doctor, of sorts, so this kind of thing is right up her alley. I’ll get the full pamper treatment.”

Edmund laughs shyly. “I wish I could have a girlfriend.”

Through my one open eye I size Edmund up, clapping him on the back.

“Someday, buddy. You’re a good-looking fellow.”

He shakes his head. “I’m too quiet for anyone to notice me. Especially girls.”

“My girl is shy too,” I say. “Really, really shy.”

“It’s different for girls,” says Edmund.

“Maybe,” I concede. Edmund must have some social confidence. I wonder if in his personality split that portion ended up with his baser instincts. If Kathryn split would one of her have the confidence to come out in public? I could take her out to a restaurant, movies. We could go to Paris. Do everything she’s ever wanted.

_Why are you thinking like this? Kathryn is perfect the way she is. So what if you’re confined to a few spaces? It’s worth it – right?_

That uncomfortable thought niggles in the back of my mind again.

_You could make her more social. Take away that fear. That’s how you got her to like you in the first place._

“It’s not,” I whisper. Truthfully I’m not even sure anymore. And that may be the worst feeling.

Beside me, Edmund falters slightly.

“I can’t,” he gasps. His eyes roll around his head in fear. No one on the street appears to be watching us.

“Com’on buddy,” I urge. “We’re so close. You’re gonna feel stronger soon, I promise.”

Edmund shakes, his entire body vibrating. Without thinking I grab hold of his arms, taking over his energy and replacing it with my own. His incomplete aura gives easily, and blinking, Edmund straightens his posture and resumes walking. I maintain a tight hold on his elbow to ensure his energy level remains stable and predictable.

As we approach our location, signs of the other Edmund are obvious. He seems to be growing in his desire for chaos as pedestrians swerve wildly to move away and I finally spot my companion’s doppelganger.  He casually brandishes a firearm in one hand, gesturing with the other and taking money and valuables into his pockets.

“Go on,” he says. I’m too far to hear him, but I see his mouth round out the words through his sneer. The terrified woman backs away, then turns and runs. Chaos Edmund watches and points the gun at her departing back.

“NO!”

I’m not sure if I shout or if the word simply echoes in my head as the wave of energy floods from my chest. The arm holding the gun rises, firing into the air as Edmund stares at his hand in surprise. The Edmund beside me slumps.

“Wake up. This is not the time!” I shout at the prone form, shaking his arm. The bad Edmund sizes me up with his firearm still in hand, planning his escape. I have to catch him. I see the fading bits of good Edmund’s aura, draining faster the closer I bring the two halves into contact. Dragging one I’ll never catch the other.

“Watch him!” I yell to some onlookers, taking off after the other Edmund. I really need to start running if this is going to be a regular thing. Edmund moves quickly and at his current pace I’m going to lose him after another turn. I struggle against my aching limbs to find a center. I managed to throw my energy a moment ago, something I’ve seen Rathe do but never accomplished on my own. It’s my only chance now. I stop running and trying to suppress the feeling of idiocy, close my eyes and outstretch one hand, feeling the vibrations of the air, the molecules connecting the immediate zones of energy.

_Stop_. No. Orders don’t work. Tap into the emotional context, Rathe would say. Negative emotions are easier but positive ones resonant more deeply, linger.

_You’re going to be fine._

The air shimmers and I feel the gentle wave flowing outward, somehow gaining in strength. It hones in on my target. With a deep breath, I open my eyes. The other Edmund stands, leaning against the wall of a building, face wet. I walk up slowly.

“I’m afraid,” he says.

“I am too,” I admit.  

The two Edmunds face each other, life force draining rapidly.

“You need to hold hands,” I say.

“What if we don’t want to?” says one.

“Then you’ll die. I can’t make you. The decision has to be yours.”

Edmund eyes himself warily. One extends a hand. With a second of hesitation the other takes it. The light of the auras rejoining and revitalizing blinds me temporarily. A single Edmund stands where the two halves had been. Dropping to the ground he begins to cry.

“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let me get you home.”

My comm crackles.

“Hey Marc…” Gordy’s voice sounds strange.

“Yeah, G?”

“You better get back. I’ve got a hit on evil Rathe. It’s not good.”

*

I direct Parker over to Fancy. The loud engine rumbles to a halt as she shuts of the ignition. I can’t believe how happy I am to see the sketchy front of this strip club.

“I can’t believe you live here,” says Parker.

“It’s nicer than you think.”

“Doubt that,” she says, preparing to turn the engine back on.

“Come on up,” I say. “I’ll show you the back of the house. The nice part,” I add.

“Just to make sure someone is there to take care of you,” she says, pocketing the keys.

“Sure.”

Parker sits awkwardly on the edge of the pullout couch that serves as my bed. True to her word she’s waiting for Gordy to finish something up before leaving. I can practically hear her counting the seconds.

“Relax,” I say, taking a seat next to her. She shifts but the old cushions slide her right back beside me, our thighs just touching. I can smell that intoxicating aroma she emits and it’s tempting to lean in where its strongest in the crook of her next. Parker’s breath comes shallow and fast.

“It’s ok,” I say.

“What is?” She looks panicked and I can’t help laughing.

“I know what it’s like to have certain kinds of powers. To wonder what effect it has on the people around you. To not trust yourself around others for that reason. I don’t want you to worry around me.”

Parker holds her breath and in the perfect silence her hazel eyes shift in color between grey and brown and green. Long lashes flutter – have they always been so long, so striking?

“You’ve never told me what you are.” The whisper strokes my cheek, teasing the promise of…something. I want…

“Finally!” says Gordy, swinging the door ajar. “We solv– oh. Sorry,” he says, ducking his head. My head, an inch away from Parker’s skin, snaps away from her cheek at the interruption.

“I was just leaving,” says Parker, fairly leaping over the tall Dryadalis in her effort to escape. “Bye…Rathe.”

“Bye Dana.” But she’s already several feet down the hallway. Gordy watches her retreat with his mouth open.

“Well, that,” he begins.

“Let’s stay focused,” I suggest firmly. I can feel parts of myself slipping away, falling. I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore or what inside of me is calling the shots.  

The dizziness and vision comes on quickly. White lab coast, cool silver steel, the heat from dozens of holstered police weapons.

“She’s at the precinct,” I gasp.

“Who?”

“Other Rathe,” I say. She’s also losing control. Lost in the need to manipulate, destroy, to try and fill the hole in her gut that can never be repaired. Lost in her fury.

Gordy pulls up the precinct cameras. A line of officers stand with their weapons drawn facing a line of civilians, other police, and among them, Kathryn.

“I need to get there!” I say, trying to stand. The effort takes too much and I fall back to the couch with a wave of dizziness.

“Danaaaa!” hollers Gordy. He hops to his feet and dashes. On the monitor the other Rathe struts between the two lines with a satisfied expression, checking her watch periodically.

_She’s waiting for us_.

Of course. I close my eyes. I can think through this. She’s me after all. The most arrogant, untrusting, angry portions of myself. When I open my eyes again she’s still there, unchanged, but I feel only pity for her, not fear.

“Ready?” asks Gordy. Parker stands behind him reluctantly.

“If you are,” I say to Parker.

*

My heart pounds in my chest outside the quiet precinct. It’s my imagination I know, but I feel Kathryn’s aura like a phantom limb, just knowing she’s there. Waiting is pointless. The line of victims are just as Gordy described, Rathe waiting in the space between the lobby and precinct.

“Rathe, you need to stop,” I say.

“Have you come to appeal to my loving side?” she asks sarcastically. “Or just here to protect your girlfriend?” She says the last word with a particular note of distain. Kathryn closes her eyes, the new situation and crowded position on the brink of breaking her composure.

Rathe wants me to choose. I can protect Kathryn or take on Rathe directly. I can’t do both.

“I knew you’d catch on eventually,” she says.

“What’s the point?” I ask.

“I want you to prove me right. That you’re just like me. We can’t help but push the buttons so conveniently laid out for us.”

Kathryn heaves silently, her body beginning to shake. I feel her pain shredding my gut, making it churn with discomfort so intense I want to vomit. But there’s something else. Kathryn gestures. It’s barely noticeable amongst her other movements. In the pocket of her lab coat, a bottle and syringe.

I release my breath, flowing the calm, protective shell Kathryn needs to find herself in this crowd. Her anxious movements pause, replaced by calm. She pulls the vial and syringe from her pocket, and with an efficient motion, darts from the cluster of hostages sinking the needle into Rathe.

Rathe falls to her knees, a smile across her face.

“I knew it,” she breathes.

Parker appears with another version of Rathe on the threshold, practically dragging her. The two Rathes exchange an unreadable glance and take each other’s hands without argument. A silver moon fills the lobby, glowing, and Rathe, one perfect, imperfect Rathe remains.

Parker stands and clears her throat.

“Everyone should go,” says Parker. “Thank you for participating in this hostage situation drill, especially to the civilians that were unwittingly involved. Officers will be debriefed tomorrow.”

The crowd murmurs and slowly separates, volume increasing with their confidence that the situation is normal. I don’t move, letting the crowd work its way around me. After injecting Rathe with the suppression serum Kathryn vanished, and though I know where, I’m not sure I should follow. I wait while Parker continues to direct people out and answer questions with a calmness that belies her internal turmoil.

The morgue is quiet and empty in the front. I find Kathryn staring at the desk in the back office. She smiles when I knock on the door frame.

“Took your time,” she teases lightly. Her aura still oscillates unevenly from the energy surge.

“I wanted to give you some space,” I say, staying just beyond the threshold of the door. She waits, knowing there is more. I take a deep breath.

 “I don’t think I can be with you.”

Kathryn’s face falls slack as she sets her expression to a neutral front.

“Ok,” she says. “Can I ask why?”

“It was my fault you were put in that position,” I say. “And to get you through it I…I had to…influence you.” It’s a struggle to find the right words. I took over. Controlled her. Made her do something that she would never do on her own.

“It wasn’t right,” I continue. “And it’s not fair because I’m starting to realize that I do that a lot. To you. In order to make things easier for me.” I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

“If that’s how you feel, Marcus.” Her soft voice carries no judgement, making it all the worse. Nothing I say can redeem me, so, saying nothing I turn and leave.


	16. The I in Team

“You should have NEVER confronted the Mayor without informing me!” Billy’s face flames with anger that extends in red patches to the top of his bald head. “NEVER!” he repeats.

“No one ever told me this,” I argue.

He sighs in exasperation. “Does it always have to be spelled out?”

Marcus chuckles quietly in the seat next to mine. “For Rathe? Yah.”

“Years of planning,” continues Billy. “Months of work since you returned about how to properly make your introduction into the Resistance. It was bad enough with your friend Goofy–”

“Gordy?”

“–going online and prancing around here but now you’ve waltzed into City Hall and introduced yourself to the Mayor, so she OBVIOUSLY knows, and even worse, gotten yourself into the paper again.” At that, Billy slaps down _The City Portend_ whose front page declares “Rathe Adler Found Hypothermic on Side of Road.”

“It’s under the fold,” I offer.

“Still front page!” yells Billy. “Sheesh!” He rubs the top of his head.

It’s not that I want to provoke Billy, but it all feels a little unfair. It’s not like I wanted to walk back from the city dump on a cold night without a jacket. Much less end up in the emergency room with hypothermia. Just as I can’t be held accountable for holding Kathryn at gunpoint or whatever happened with Parker. None of that was me. Not really.

Billy sighs. “What’s done is done,” he says. “But we’ve lost the element of surprise. The council members will meet tonight and decide. I suspect they will want to attack as soon as possible. Catch the Sapiens off guard.”

“Attack?”

“Yes, Ms. Adler, attack. I know you’re new, but this is a war we’ve been fighting for a long time.” Billy tosses the paper into the trash and waves towards the door. “Now go.”

I stand. “It’s just…’attack’ seems aggressive. Like there may be casualties.”

Billy’s small eyes pierce my own. “It’s possible,” he says, tone steely.

“Right,” I say, moving towards the door.

Outside his office I breathe a sigh. “Are you ok with this?” I ask Marcus. “All this ‘war’ and ‘attack’ and ‘no Sapiens’ chatter?”

“Yeah,” he says shrugging. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uh, well I can think of one good reason. Maybe you know her? Wears glasses. Works at the morgue. Shy…”

“That’s over,” Marcus interrupts.

“What? Why? When?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His usual softness feels cold and hard as ice.

“Marcus…” I grab his hand. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t shut yourself off,” I say. “You broke up, fine. I’m not going to talk you out of it or into it or whatever. But let yourself feel.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich coming from you,” he retorts. “As you’ve recently reminded me, you’re not the sister I grew up with. I know you’ve been through a lot, but damned if I can tell you the details. Who are you to tell me to not shut down when I’ve lost the best thing I’ve found in years? You’ve been shut down since the moment you woke on this earth.”

“What do you want to know?” I say, opening my arms wide. “Ask me anything! I’m an open book.”

“That’s the thing, Rathe. I shouldn’t have to. You should want to tell me.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” I say.

“Oh really?” says Marcus sarcastically. “Save it. Gordy already told me.”

“Told you…?”

“About how he walked in on you about to kiss Parker. I bet you haven’t even seen her since the incident at the station.”

“That’s beside the point–”

“Just…” Marcus puts his hands up. “Until I know that I can be there for you, I can’t let you do this.” He sighs, struggling to center his erratic energy.

“I’m sorry you got in trouble with Billy,” he says, eyes pale as a silvery ghost. “I need some time to think. Alone.”

I let Marcus be, stewing as I return to my room. I’m going to pummel Gordy when I get the chance. I can’t believe that gossip told Marcus about that stupid moment with Parker. A moment of obvious weakness where I let her overpower me and draw me into her charm. I pitch a pillow into the corner of the couch. It sticks with a satisfying whomp.

Marcus is right though. That’s a mess I do need to clean up, to make sure that Parker knows where we stand. She’s the professional type. Probably be just as happy as me to get back to our business relationship. I reach for my coat. The walk will do me good.

The precinct bustles with activity, making it easy to slip over to Parker’s desk.

“Knock, knock,” I say, tapping my knuckles on the corner of the desk. Parker starts, standing abruptly, banging her knees against the edge of the desk in her rush. My goal of nice and casual is already off to an awkward start.

“I just wanted to –”

“I’ve been promoted,” blurts Parker.

We both pause.

“Alright. Congratulations,” I say. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Parker glances at the ceiling as if pained. “Unofficially promoted,” she says delicately. “The captain was pleased with my cover for the…thing and wants me to take on more responsibility.” She gives me a pointed look, lowering her voice. “With Scrimner.”

“That’s great! You’re our inside man! Woman,” I correct.

“It means I’m really under the microscope now,” Parker says in a low voice. “Everything I do will be monitored. Including the fact that you are here now.” She sits just as abruptly as she stood. “So please go.”

“Right. Well, just wanted to make sure there was no awkwardness between us,” I say. “Good to see we’re on the same page,” I add, turning and showing myself out.

I swallow the rejection that burbles up from my gut. It’s not like I wanted her to want me. If anything, this is the best possible outcome. Gives us distance and we both understand nothing means nothing. There is no alliance, never was. She’s fighting her own desperate battle and I’ve got mine, with the benefit of the whole Resistance and their as-yet-to-be-defined plan.

Briefly I consider asking her if she’s part of it. Maybe working in the background with Mr. Fernuffle or some other council member. But Parker studiously avoid my gaze, staring fixedly at the blank page beneath her hand. It’s not for me to get involved, and so I leave her to her plans.

In the lobby, my eye is drawn to the door that I know leads down to the morgue. Kathryn is probably mad at me as well, seeing as my evil doppelganger did try to kill her and my brother broke her heart. What the hell? Might as well make it a full three strikes.

The morgue bustles with unusual activity as gurneys line the hallway and attendants flip through toe tags and zip them off to different corners of the space. Bodies in all states of inspection litter the room as medical examiners move from one to the other.

“Can I help you?” A young man pauses in his dance step to eye me with interest.

“I’m looking for Kathryn Li.”

He shakes his head. “Night shift,” he says. “But I wouldn’t bother checking later. She called in sick early this morning.”

Sounds about right. Strike three.

*

“Gordy!” I call down the empty hallway. Fancy is strangely silent. It unsettles me to not have reliable Gordy to confide in on this shit day. I shoot him a quick text.

_Where are you???_

The phone blinks silently. I sigh. Maybe some food will take care of this weird mood I’m in. I’m halfway through a pile of chips when my phone buzzes. I knock a chip to the floor in my jump to retrieve the phone.

_Out._

Well that’s cryptic.

_Where?_

I wait but there is no response. The chips fill me up but I still have the same restless energy. An idea pops into my head. A terrible idea that compels me forward. I need to see the Mayor again.

City Hall bustles with mid-week activity. I head straight to the Mayor’s office at the end of the central wing. The receptionist smiles brightly as I enter.

“Rathe Adler here to see the Mayor,” I say, speed walking past her desk. “I’m sure she’s expecting me.”

Helplessly the receptionist flails, trying to halt my progress but I’m able to open the imposing oak door before she can stop me.

“I’m sorry, she wouldn’t listen,” the receptionist pleads into the dark-oaked room. The backlit shadow behind the desk stands.

“It’s fine Deborah,” she says. “Leave us.”

Deborah shoots me a dirty look as she closes the door. Mayor Townsend stands and steps around the desk.

“Back for more I see. I thought I requested you schedule a meeting.”

I ignore her, striding up to the desk to study the stone carvings. Some are obviously of human or animal figures, but on closer inspection most are abstract shapes. They emit no visible aura but if I could just touch one quickly…

“Make these yourself?” I ask. “I’m personally not much into these kinds of knick-knacks. Always struck me as tacky.”

The Mayor’s jaw clenches in a tight smile. I shoot out a hand to grab one, and this time, expecting her reaction, spin just out of reach.

Instantly her shifting energy vanishes and I see the core of energy condensed within the stone, a whole city of auras trapped and contained. Dancing around her large form, I replace the figure on the desk.

“I don’t get it,” I say casually, hoping she doesn’t detect any change. The Mayor eyes me warily.

“Why are you here?” she asks. “More about that kid?”

“Oh no, we found him,” I reply smoothly. “Turns out he was with a friend for a few days. Kids, eh?”

I move so the desk forms a barrier between us and gaze out the large window into the gardens.

“No, I’m here because you knew my parents.”

With pleasure I note her surprise at my directness.

“And?” she prompts.

I shrug. “I figure if they were good friends of yours I should be too.” I turn to face her, extending a hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to start over.”

The Mayor regards my hand for several long seconds before laughing. I’m unsure if she’s going to complete the handshake or reject me. It all depends on what power she is drawing from now, and whether she can read me.

“I’d like that Ms. Adler.” An appropriately ambiguous answer. I have a feeling we’re both playing the same game, trying to feel the other out, prodding for soft spots. Our palms connect, hers cold and damp, like a fish. I suppress my revulsion and force a smile. The Mayor sits in one of her visitor chairs, indicating I should sit behind the desk. She kicks her legs up.

“So. Friend Rathe. What can I really do for you?”

*

I kick back another shot and Gordy pats my back encouragingly.

“Another round!” he calls. I let my head hang low.

“Gordy, does it bother you when Rathe makes you help? Convinces you to do something you wouldn’t normally?” I ask. The Dryadalis opens his already wide eyes even further.

“I never thought about that,” he says wonderingly. “I always want to help her.”

I can’t hold back the bitter laugh. “She’s good,” I admit. “Better than me.”

The bartender tops up the shot glasses and I sling the next one back. It burns all the way down my throat, leaving a simmering boil at the base of my gut.

“I don’t know how it doesn’t bother her,” I mumble.

“Bother who?” asks Gordy.

“Rathe,” I say. But I could just as well be talking about Kathryn. That impassive expression as I left…as if she never really cared. I’m not sure which one I mean. Maybe Rathe after all. How she so easily wields her empathic ability without thought or guilt for how it changes the people around. Or Kathryn who seems to thrive off the empathic connection, encouraging me to give in to it, to set the tone for my environment. Set the energy for her. I’m unsure where her wishes end and mine begin.

I shove the shot glass away. It teeters as it slides but stays put on the edge of the bar.

“Watch it,” warns the bartender with a look that I know well.

Gordy waves, taking accountability for my behavior and earns a stern look as well. I allow myself to slip down further in the chair. Why does it all feel so hard? Having my sister return should have made things easier, instead I feel mixed up inside, second-guessing myself constantly and wondering what I’ve become, or more accurately what have I always been.

“The Resistance,” whispers Gordy.

I start. He inclines his head towards his phone.

“They’re meeting now. We should go.”

He sweeps up jackets with his long arms and still finds space to hoist me from my seat. The room dips and spins as vomit rises from the back of my throat. Closing my eyes I push it down. I will not get sick here. Gordy pauses and helps me stand, moving more slowly.

The cold air outside does good work sobering me up quickly, as does Gordy’s decision to have us walk halfway. By the time he calls us a car I’m feeling almost clear-headed.

It’s a good thing Gordy waited for me to sober up, for the old warehouse in which the meeting is being held is packed to the gills and sticky with body heat. I peel off my jacket and begin to edge towards the front, sliding along the wall until I have a clear view of the proceedings up front.

Billy stands at the center, with the other reps forming a semi-circle around him. Behind me Gordy huffs and crosses his arms. A giant Dryadalis that bears an uncanny resemblance to Gordy stands two members away from Billy. Gordy stares him down with a petulant expression. I bite my lip.

_Been there buddy_.

The proceeding brings back memories I’d long ago assumed lost. My parents, Rathe, standing out front to applause while I was relegated to the back, watched over by the fawning teenage children of aides and assistants. Not a bad life at all. But not quite what any kid dreams of either. At least I know I’m not alone. I have a feeling it’s not the life Gordy wants either. Playing to the crowd, leading the mob…Definitely more Rathe’s scene than mine or Gordy’s.

I’m about to ask Gordy where Rathe is when Billy raises his hands and the crowd falls quiet.

“We’ve had some good debate here today,” says Billy, swiveling his head to take in each of the council members. “Some good points, and important reminders of our purpose here.”

I’m glad we missed all the boring stuff. I’ve had to sit through enough of these to have a good idea what came up as far as reminders, etc. Though hearing debate on the actual plan would have been nice. Billy’s been unusually tight-lipped on that one.

“…and now we have come to a final decision!” finishes Billy. “The time to wait is no longer! The Adler heir has returned and shall play her part!”

I turn to Gordy, mouthing “Where is Rathe?”

He stares, uncomprehendingly, moving his hands in some sort of sign language I’ve never seen. I’m so busy trying to interpret his wild gestures I almost miss the next part.

“…special election to be held in one month’s time!” Billy concludes. “At which point we shall all be ready to attack while the masses are distracted, to take control of the positions that have been denied and return this city to its glorious heritage!”

The crowd cheers but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart. This news coupled with our fight earlier means Rathe won’t speak to me for years, if ever. I’m trapped in this self that knows I can be more. Trapped by the man whose been the closest thing I have to family and my actual family.

I push against the crowd, shoving my way back past Gordy and when I finally reach the exit, breaking into a run. My legs churn in an unknown direction, the only goal to get as far away as I can from myself, to outrun the emptiness inside. When I stop outside the precinct I finally understand what I need.

Parker sits at her desk. She heads me into a side hall off before I can corner her fully.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” she whispers harshly. “I told Rathe–”

“This isn’t about Rathe,” I interrupt. “In fact, she wouldn’t want me to be here, to ask this.”

“Ok,” says Parker, eyebrows arching with interest.

I begin to smile, and in doing so find I can’t stop. I let the joy rise until laughter burbles from my mouth.

“Are you alright?” asks Parker.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just happy.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to help me finally be the person I’m supposed to be.”

*

“I’d like to understand your position on Leporem,” I say. I tip back the cup of tea as the Mayor does the same. Deborah glares as she leaves the room. Probably just sore that after walking in unannounced I’m still here an hour later and now she’s been tasked with bringing us refreshments.

“I think you already know,” Mayor Townsend responds.

“Why? I’m genuinely curious.”

The corner of Mayor Townsend’s mouth curls up.

“Have you ever met a Leporem?” she asks.

“Actually yes,” I say.

“And did you like them?”

“Sort of. It…it was confusing.”

“Precisely,” responds the Mayor. “You’re smart, Rathe. Smarter than most people in this town, and for that reason you were probably able to discern something only a few can.” She leans forward, hands on her knees. “You felt them influencing you.” She leans back.

“I did.” It’s undeniable. The intoxicating feeling, the ethereal aura they emit. It’s…

“It’s invasive.” The Mayor’s statement finishes my thought. “Deeply, dangerously invasive. It’s why I had to eliminate them. Or as close as one can get.”

“By eliminating chrysalis.”

The Mayor chuckles, a deep rumble that rolls throughout the room like thunder.

“You disagree?”

“I do,” I say. “On chrysalis at least.”

“But not on Leporem?” Her eyebrows raise.

I try to resist the urge to squirm. Of the two Leporem I’ve met one was definitely dangerous and Parker…

“They aren’t all bad,” I say. Though not exactly reliable.

“Oh really? I can tell from here they make you uncomfortable. Why should they have the power to manipulate? To alter the world to their whims?”

“Anyone can manipulate,” I argue.

“You know as well as I do, it’s not the same. To sway through argument or natural friendliness, is not at all the same as altering someone’s state through pheromones.”

“I suppose so.” I shift again.

“It would seem we agree then,” says the Mayor.

“Not on chrysalis. You banned that for everyone, regardless. You’ve deliberately kept thousands from reaching their potential.”

“I have,” the Mayor agrees. “Because we don’t know what form anyone’s powers will take. Maybe good, or maybe bad. We don’t know and that can also be dangerous.” She pauses, a small smile playing across her face.

“I suppose re-opening chrysalis is the basis for your platform then.”

“My platform?”

“The one on which you’re running,” the Mayor says innocently. “I would have thought they’d told you. You’ve challenged me to a special election.”

Casually she leans forward to grab her phone, turning the screen so I can see. _The City Portend_ has the headline on the top of its home page. “Rathe Adler Challenges Mayor Townsend in Special Election.” The article is time-stamped just twenty minutes ago. My jaw drops.

“How…”

“I wouldn’t be a very good mayor if I didn’t have my ear to the ground,” she responds. I suppose that’s true. But I’m still wondering how I could have issued a challenge without even knowing.

“But this friendly chat makes me wonder exactly why you would throw down such a challenge?”

The rage bubbles up unexpectedly. Billy. The goddamn Resistance. They’re using me. Using my name, specifically. I should have expected as much from Billy who would turn in his own grandmother if it helped the cause. But Marcus I can’t believe. He must have known. How could he look at me this morning, not saying a word?

I set my jaw. “I need to go.”

“So it would seem.” The Mayor’s face is impossible to read. Humored or bored. Maybe merely expectant. She stands and stretches. “Until next time, Ms. Adler. Although…”

The lingering thought comes as my hand touches the doorknob.

“You don’t have to do it.” Her dark eyes glint. “We could work together instead. Who knows? Maybe in time you could even convince me to change my position on certain topics.”

I rest my hand on the door. It’s an intriguing proposal, even as it goes against everything I’ve vowed. Clearly the Mayor has no idea I know she was behind the accident that destroyed my family.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, letting the heavy door shut behind me, and wishing that everything could be bottled up as easily as the Mayor’s captured potential.


	17. Say It Ain't So

I stop and check myself multiple times after leaving City Hall. I’m still me. No weird shenanigans from the Mayor this time, just a semi-civil chat. Really at this point my conversation with the Mayor ranks as a high point. Sure, I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, but there’s something present that every other relationship of mine lacks. A kind of trust or honesty. Clear status. We exist on opposite sides, but we both know it. Neither of us pretend to be something we’re not. Friends. Siblings. Partners. For all the Mayor’s faults, not small ones either, I’ll grant that she is at least honest and upfront.

 “Hey.”

I look up from the warm muffle of my coat. Parker. This damn town is too small.

“Wow, you just cannot stop thinking about me can you?” I say. “I thought you didn’t want to talk and now here you are.”

“That was in the precinct. Everyone is always watching there.” She shifts between her feet restlessly. “I heard about your campaign,” she says finally.

“Apparently everyone knew before I did.”

“You didn’t know?” she asks in confusion.

“It’s…not important,” I say.

Except that it is. It’s hugely terribly important to my survival. I can’t believe that after the months I’ve been here Billy would throw me under the bus like that. And Marcus… It’s as if I don’t even exist to them. I’m a pawn in their game. A token that can be used and discarded, replaced with another if lost.

“Fuck,” I say to myself. “I might as well be invisible.”

The energy wells inside, swirling faster than a tornado, condensed tighter than the energy inside the Mayor’s creepy stone lockers. I’m afraid I can’t control it, can’t center, that I’m too angry, when all the sudden the tornado vanishes. In inhale the cold, sharp air. My body feels completely neutral, as if I’ve hit a magical reset button. The anger lingers but in a nice, controlled manner akin to how normal humans probably feel.

“What happened?” asks Parker. I don’t know if she felt the energy or is still talking about the campaign announcement. Either way, I’m not in the mood.

“The usual. See you around Parker.” I release a breath of hot air as I walk away, watching it steam into a cloud in the early evening. No sense putting off the confrontation. I turn my feet towards Fancy, hoping the cold air will do the remaining work of calming me down.

The door bustles with activity, primarily Dryadalis and Neander. I squeeze my way past the patrons who chat, fully engrossed in conversation. This must be the Resistance afterparty, for I’ve never seen Fancy this busy so early. I spot Marcus by the bar in his usual too-tight t-shirt, chatting with Billy.

“Thanks for the heads up!” I yell. Marcus shakes his head at something Billy says. For a moment it seems he’ll catch my eye but he turns away.

“Yeah, we’ll talk later,” I mumble. I press through the unmoving crowd for another minute searching for Gordy. A waitress bumps into me, knocking me against one of the oversized chairs.

“Hey!” I yell. In the din she doesn’t acknowledge me. I don’t have the patience for this crowded, obnoxious scene. With a huff, I make my way to the hidden door, and seclude myself in my room.

It’s still quiet when I wake but considerably darker. The alarm clock glows 11:30pm. The nap has done me well. I’m feeling refreshed and much calmer. Hopefully the afterparty has wound down and Fancy will feel normal now.

I note with relief that the majority of Resistance members seem to have left. The club is still packed, but with more of the regulars and expected patrons for such an establishment. Glitter bustles about, serving the VIP tables drinks. One customer oogles her behind, giving it a smack.

“Hands off,” I say sharply, exuding my rebuke psychically. The man recoils in surprise as Glitter glares. Coolly she reaches for his full glass and never moving her gaze from his face, spits into the drink, setting it back down carefully.

“Enjoy the show,” she says.

I snort. “Well done,” I say as she passes. The man doesn’t touch the drink, but stares at his hands as if horrified by what they’ve done.

I follow Glitter up to the bar where Marcus spins about in his usual routine of flattering customers, flirting, and filling drink orders. It all seems a bit off tonight though, more an act than usual. His energy, usually off the charts during this lively time, is reserved and he glances at the clock behind the bar every time he turns.

“Wine when you get a chance,” I call.

He spins and sets a bottle of wine in front of me, cleanly popping the cork. I smile and pour myself a glass. I don’t want to get in his way during the midnight rush so I sip and watch the show, feeling the vibe of the club ebb and flow. The jerk that hassled Glitter begins to cry at some point, something about having no hands, and staff have to call an ambulance. But once he’s gone everything settles down. It’s almost relaxing until Billy appears to help Marcus at the bar.

“I’m out of here,” I call to Marcus. “Maybe we can catch up later. When certain people aren’t around,” I add.

Marcus smirks and Billy pretends to ignore me. I drain the glass, and comfortably tipsy, put myself to bed upstairs.

*

“Where the hell is Rathe?” I mutter, loud enough that Billy can hear me but not so loud that I draw attention away from the stage. For the sixth time in the past twenty minutes, Billy pretends to ignore me. I swallow down the sick feeling in my gut. A little after midnight and I haven’t seen Rathe since early this morning.

While the tap fills a glass with beer I check my phone again. No messages. On cue it buzzes. Parker.

_Still on?_

_Yes,_ I respond.

I slide the full glass over, trading it for the damp bills the customer offers in exchange. This night is interminable. Silently Billy fulfills orders alongside me, refusing to acknowledge my questions. Swell. It’s not like it’s his sister that is being offered as the sacrificial lamb. A sister that he convinced to join said cause. A growl of frustration escapes and the clock continues to crawl by.

A half-finished bottle of wine and empty glass rests on the edge of the bar. I snag them with a frown. Leftovers from one of the VIP tables.  I need to ask Glitter to let me know when she drops this stuff off. Can’t have empties just sitting around. Makes us look sloppy.  

The clock crawls forward and I feel I’ve aged years by the time Billy rings the bell to signal last call. The remaining patrons are mostly slumped over on chairs or enthusiastically eating our breakfast selection side-by-side with a beer. I wipe down the counter for something to do, willing my eyes away from the clock.

“Hot date?” teases Glitter as she deposits a tray of used glasses.

“No,” I say.

She shrugs. “I’ve never seen you check the clock so much.”

On second thought, it’s not a bad cover. Certainly easier to explain than meeting with a sort-of-friend cop for an illegal initiation ritual.

“Ok, you got me,” I say. “Date. I’ll let you know later how hot.” I wink and Glitter laughs.

“That’s the Marc I know,” she says, mussing up my hair. I fake a scowl and try to smooth it out.

“Hey, did you by chance see Rathe tonight?” I ask. “I thought she might come down for a bit.”

Glitter’s forehead furrows. “I don’t think so,” she says thoughtfully. “But maybe she was planning for the campaign. Pretty exciting stuff, eh? How long have you known?”

“I just found out today,” I say.

“Well, she is good at keeping secrets then,” Glitter remarks. “It’s incredible what she’s doing. Putting herself out there, making all of this come true for us.” I don’t have the heart to tell her Rathe probably just found out today as well. That left to her own Rathe would never volunteer for something like this.

“Well, uh, I need to hop in the shower. Date and all.”

“Go get yourself sexy,” Glitter purrs.

I skip the shower and instead duck out the back alley, ignoring the couple pressed up against the wall in an unmistakable activity. A block away from Fancy I flag a car to get me the rest of the way to the address Parker sent. We pass the precinct and the driver weaves through a series of narrow streets packed with brownstones side-by-side. He pauses at the end of one and double-checking the number I hop out.

Lamps are few and far between, leaving much of the street cloaked in darkness. The steps to the brownstone tilt unevenly, the age of the house apparent on approach. On the covered porch, I peer through the glass, wondering if I should knock or wait. I hadn’t thought to ask if Parker has roommates. Finally, I text.

_Here_.

Almost immediately the porch light pops on, spotting my vision with the sudden brightness. The door swings open.

“Why didn’t you ring the bell?” Parker asks. I blink. I’ve seen Parker out of uniform but somehow in a sweatpants and t-shirt her entire energy is altered. She’s comfortable, relaxed, with a sweeter, softer aura than I’ve seen before. There’s something extra present as well, low level happiness as if I walked in on a pleasant daydream.

“I thought you might have roommates,” I stutter. “And it’s late.”

“Just me,” she replies crisply, some of the hard edges returning. “Hurry up. Get in.”

The interior is cozy if a bit dated. Worn wood floor dotted with an assortment of brightly colored rugs, all mismatched. The furniture appears equally uncoordinated, bold colors contrasting brightly. Pillows and fuzzy blankets on the couch revealing Parker’s location just prior to answering the door.

“You don’t have to look around quite so obviously,” Parker says. “It’s not perfect but it’s home.”

I grin. “You ashamed?”

“Not at all,” she replies, a bit defensively. “Let’s remember we’re doing this here because you live with dozens of roommates above a strip club.”

“I never forgot that,” I say. “How does this work?”

Parker’s embarrassment vanishes as the reason for my visit takes over.

“Well, um, to be honest I’m not sure. Remember I didn’t do it quite right before.”

“Yeah, but you know the general idea,” I say. And hopefully the experience with Rathe has helped close the gaps.

“I don’t know why I agreed to this,” Parker says.

I feel the energy building at my fingertips. “I can make you,” I say evenly. “I’d rather not. But if I have to, I will.”

Parker’s throat bobs. “Well there’s some chanting,” she says. “You’ll need to get into a meditative state and make contact with an element containing fey magic. I will have to guide you.”

Carefully she extracts a cylindrical crystal with jagged edges and a light purple aura from her pocket.

“This is my totem. You can borrow it for the ceremony.”

Normally I would laugh at her use of the overly formal “ceremony” to describe this, especially as it’s taking place in her strange hodge-podge of a home. But something about the reverence of her tone vibrates in my core, emphasizing the importance of this moment, this choice.

I lick dry lips.

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

Lies. I’m suddenly terrified by the complete unknown of chrysalis. The opening of the world into…everything. Anything. Nothing. I’m paralyzed, unable to make my way to the space she’s prepared on the floor.

“I was scared,” Parker says.

“But you did it.” I’ve never felt so inadequate.

She nods. “I felt…physical pain,” she says. “I couldn’t live one second longer with the feeling that I was missing something.”

Her warmth extends in pale yellow and I feel her comforting presence. A little rough like sandpaper, but solid, dependable. Someone I can trust in this moment.

We sit on a soft white rug with her crystal in the center and the living room lights off. Light from the adjoining kitchen provides enough glow to see by, although in the dimness colors vanish into a thousand variations of grey. Parker’s hands burn with warmth and I let myself succumb to her charming influence as a means of finding the strength to see this through. In a low tone she begins the chant and with a shaky breath I close my eyes.

My heart beats quickly, much too quickly to properly meditate. Patiently Parker continues and I cast about for something, anything, that will help me focus. An image of Kathryn, her shy smile like a flower just beginning to blossom. My breath deepens as I release my anxiety. It’s time to let go of the fear.

I feel weightless, dropping through a warm ocean, breathing easily in the crystal water. The fish ripple past in the multicolored splendor of Parker’s various rugs, one even appearing to have her face but slipping away on the current. I continue my smooth descent, the light fading as the plants grow richer and darker and fish and other sea life begin to glow. Gently my feet touch down in the muddy sand, small clouds pillowing about. To the left I spot a cavern rising from the ocean floor, calling my name in a language I don’t know.

The entrance of the cave releases a cool current of water. Despite the absolute darkness within, I feel no terror. As I walk inside, all sight vanishes. I can’t see my hand waving inches from my nose. I feel the ground slope downward finally opening into a room of light ahead. The newest room is perfectly smooth on all sides with carvings that extend across the entire hemisphere. Light shines through the cracks that make up the elaborate kaleidoscopic pattern.

_What do you see?_

I feel more than hear the question in the same unknown language. I open my mouth to respond, immediately choking on the salty water.

Apparently breathing is fine, but not speaking. That totally makes sense.

_You’re overthinking it. What do you see?_

More urgent now. I stare at the ceiling, thinking as hard as I can and hoping this being has some telepathic ability.

What do I see? Connections I suppose. The pattern reminds me of auras in a crowd or a group of friends. The complex relationships and interplay, how they elevate to make more interesting or in some cases changing entirely. Energies and their different levels and wavelengths, the emotional memories they generate.

_Very good,_ says the voice. _Yet you seek more? Why?_

Because I’m afraid, I want to say. Afraid that I change people to suit my needs. That one day I’ll abuse this gift. Or maybe I already have.

_Your fear is a gift as well._

Well, that’s kind of bullshit. I shiver in the cool water. I’m ready to get out of here. It’s cold and I’m not enjoying these riddles. Instinctively I power ahead, continuing through the cavern. It’s only a moment before it opens back onto the dim ocean floor. I crouch in the sand, scooping a handful of gritty mud, and with a push, rocket up through the water, warmth and light growing in intensity until the surface breaks against my face.

Coughing I drop Parker’s hands. Peace as pure as I felt on the ocean floor fills my soul. Nothing has changed but I feel it. I flip my left hand over, dark sand still in the palm. My totem. A reminder of my potential.

“Let’s get you something to hold that,” Parker says quietly. She gestures to the couch. “I know it can be…a lot, so if you want to stay here tonight the couch is all yours.”

“Thanks,” I say. The ceremony can’t have taken more than five minutes but I feel strangely empty, drained of energy.

*

The next morning I go looking for someone. I’m through with this self-imposed isolation. I know one person who has always been there for me. I find him stretched out in the common room, laptop on his belly.

“Gordy!”

Gordy languidly looks around.

“Come on Gordy,” I say. “Don’t ignore me. I can’t take it.”

His gaze finally settles on me and he smiles. It’s so nice to finally see a friendly face and get some acknowledgement that I rush over, giving him a big hug as his laptop slides into the couch crease.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Around,” I say.

“You’re not mad?”

“Oh I’m mad,” I laugh. “But not at you. Why would you think that?”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “Marc thought you would be mad at all of us. Then when you disappeared…”

“Did he know?”

“I swear he didn’t,” says Gordy, eyes wide. “He was so upset with Billy.” Gordy lowers his voice. “He didn’t even sleep here last night. Left right after his shift.”

That explains why I can’t find him. Although it’s unexpected since I thought our interaction at the bar last night made it clear I wanted to talk more than berate him.

“Do you know where he went?”

Gordy squirms a little.

“No,” he says in a high-pitched voice.

“No. But…” I press.

Gordy drops his head. “I put tracking technology in his phone. Yours too. It was supposed to be an emergency thing only!”

“You track my phone?!?”

“I’ve never used it!” Gordy insists.

“But you could?”

“Yeah.”

I cross my arms. “The only way for you to leave this room without me kicking your ass is if you track Marcus’s phone right now.”

Gordy whines and I put up a fist.

“Ok! Ok!” he says. He replaces the laptop and goes to work. A map of the city begins to zoom in, triangulating the position with greater and greater precision.

“There,” he says, spinning the screen around. “That’s the address. It hasn’t moved in several hours. Looks like he spent the night.”

“Well let’s move,” I say.

Gordy glances up in surprise. “Wait, I’m coming?”

“Of course doofus. If Marcus is so worried he spent the night away I can’t have him running off again. Now hustle. And maybe put on some pants.”

*

“How did you sleep?” asks Parker. “Too soon to know if you manifested I suppose.”

“Yeah probably,” I respond. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

Hair disheveled and wrapped in her fuzzy bathrobe Parker looks even more the strikingly normal person than the prior evening. Her aura glows unevenly, bright in patches but offset by…

I stare. In the midst of her aura, there’s something odd. A figure I know well moving in tandem with Parker, or an image of her anyway. The two move within the aura like a movie projecting. Rathe runs her hands through Parker’s hair, kissing her on the mouth. Parker moans and arches back as Rathe’s mouth travels to her neck, down to the clavicle, hands fumbling against clothing and…

“Whoa! Whoa!” I say jumping off the couch and covering my eyes.

“Is everything ok?” asks Parker in surprise.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, um…” There is no way that image came from my head which means it must be coming from Parker. But Parker’s aura shows no sign of arousal just that same happy day-dreaminess from last night. I release a breath as an uncomfortable thought crosses my mind.

“Uh, Parker?”

“Yes?”

“Just bear with me on this but…” I look at the ceiling and hope the following question doesn’t scar me forever. “Did you have a sex dream about my sister last night?”

Parker’s face floods red.

“What?” she asks stiffly.

The glowing portions of her aura light up even more. The tips of my ears burn.

“I’m seeing things in your…” I gesture to the space around her. “I don’t know. This has never happened. Please stop if you can,” I plead.

“Stop what?”

“I don’t know! Stop thinking about it!” I cry helplessly.

“I can’t! I mean, I’m not!” Parker’s hand flies to her mouth as she gasps. “Oh gods,” she whispers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t stop thinking about her. At all. I thought it was just the news and being a little worried and then you called and you’re her brother so of course it’s ok for me to think about her while you’re here but then last night…” Her voice trails off and I do not need her to finish that thought.

“So you did,” I say cautiously, trying to digest what this means for me.

Parker buries her face in her hands. “Please don’t make me say it,” she says in a muffled voice.

*

The car drops us off outside a cute if nondescript brownstone. Gordy ducks his head, nervously tugging his hat over his ears. It’s a solidly Sapiens part of town but in this residential neighborhood I think we’ll be alright for the short trip to the front door. Inside, voices rise and fall, vanishing into silence as the doorbell rings. I cross my arms and ready my best glower for the hussy that opens the door. Gordy huddles right next to me on the doormat as if he might be able to disappear into my image.

The door opens and I begin the scowl.

“Wait – Parker?!?” I say.

She looks flustered with spots of pink on her cheeks. “Gordy,” she says breathlessly. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, we’re here for Marcus,” he responds looking at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving us inside. “He’s here.”

Awkwardly Gordy follows me inside and Parker shuts the door. Marcus appears equally wound up with a red flush visible on his neck just above the collar of his shirt.

“Is something going on?” I ask. “You two didn’t…?” Ugh. Bile rises in the back of my throat at the thought.

“Sorry, it’s been a weird morning,” interrupts Parker, rubbing her forehead vigorously.

“Yeah, I think it’s time for me to leave,” Marcus adds.

“I think that would be good,” says Parker quickly.

Gordy stares between the two in confusion.

“You guys know that Rathe–” he begins, gesturing towards me.

“Are you trying to torment me?” Parker interrupts. “Did you…did you tell him?” Parker asks Marcus accusingly.

“Don’t mention Rathe,” says Marcus pleadingly, hand up to avoid looking at Parker. “It brings back the sex dream thing.”

“The WHAT,” I say.

“Um,” says Gordy.

“Apparently, I see dreams now,” says Marcus. “Parker helped me through chrysalis last night and naturally the first thing I have to see is…something I’d rather not think about. Ever.”

“So, now you’re a prude,” I say. At least there’s confirmation they didn’t sleep together. The sick feeling in my gut evaporates, only to be replaced by another kind of anxiety.

“Chrysalis?!?” I yell. “You should have come to me!”

“So you didn’t have sex?” Gordy asks.

“No, eww,” says Marcus making a face. “And that’s private information, Gordon. I don’t inquire about your sex life.”

“He does seem to be a prude now,” Gordy says to me.

“Who called me a prude?” asks Marcus.

“Rathe–”

“Noooo!” they both say, covering their ears with hands. Parker lets out a muffled groan.

“Ok, what is going on?” asks Gordy. “Does no one else see her???”

“See who?” retorts Marcus.

Gordy opens his mouth, closing it after a few seconds of thought. “She of the sex dream,” he says. “Dana, your co-star is right there,” he adds pointing to me.

Parker and Marcus turn in my direction and look through me.

“Gordy,” I say slowly. “What’s going on?”

“You called Marc a prude,” he says thoughtfully.

“I recall.”

“But he’s not. I mean, we’ve measured penis sizes before. Except after you said it, a second later he was.” Gordy taps a long finger against his jaw. “Say something else,” he says, tone growing excited. “Like…Gordy can fly.”

“Alright. Gordy can fly.”

With a grin, Gordy sweeps his arms through the air, once, twice.

“This is stup–”

His feet leave the floor as he slowly begins to frog stroke around Parker’s living room.

“Say…Gordy is a genius!” he crows. “Except, wait! It’s already true!” He cackles as he finishes his slow circle of the room, carefully setting his feet back on the ground. Everyone stares at him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says with excitement. “Somehow everything Rathe is saying is coming true.” He turns to me. “All you have to do is say you want to turn it back.”

Parker inhales sharply. “She said I couldn’t stop thinking about her,” she says. “And now you’re saying she’s here and has been invisible and heard this conversation?”

“Every word,” grins Gordy as Parker somehow manages to shrink even further into her shirt.

It’s an odd feeling to realize one has been invisible to the world. Unexpectedly I’ve found a loophole, a way out of my predicament with the Resistance.

But this power, this unasked for, unexpected power isn’t something I want. It isn’t mine but something borrowed from someone who stole it. I don’t want the power to change reality that way. If I’m going to make a change, I’ll do it the hard way, because that’s the only way to make sure it will outlive me.

“I take it all back,” I say.


	18. As You Were

I stop by the morgue every night, peering in just far enough to observe the M.E. on duty. It’s a week before Kathryn reappears, looking even thinner than usual, but tending to her dead patients with the same compassionate precision as always. I linger long enough to be sure she knows I’m there. When there is no obvious sign of dismay I work up the courage to enter, stepping out from the stairwell and into the clinical space.

Kathryn doesn’t pause in her examination, making oral notes with her hands buried deep in someone’s chest cavity. I take a seat on the far side of the room, watching until she’s finished. She sews up the body, replaces the cover, and removes her gloves with an efficient snap. Only then does she make eye contact, smiling slightly.

“Rathe,” she says in a soft voice that somehow carries across the room. “It’s good to see you.”

I’m overcome with a swell of relief. “Can I give you a hug?” I ask, tears springing behind my eyes.

She nods and I rush over, barreling into her and squeezing her delicate frame tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “My brother is a jerk.”

Kathryn laughs lightly. “No, he’s not,” she says. “I’m too much for anyone to take on.”

“That’s not true. I’m here. I’m so happy you’re still my friend.”

“I think it’s a bit different. You don’t want to have sex with me.”

Her bluntness catches me off guard. “Is that what Marcus said? That it was about sex?”

Kathryn shrugs, embarrassment washing across her face. “Not in so many words. But he was clearly ready for more…intimacy. And I don’t know if I can…”

Kathryn’s shoulders hunch forward, resignation apparent. Implicitly I reach, folding her small frame into an embrace. She curls into my arms, finally breaking as her tears dust the sleeves of my jacket. Her crushing fear envelopes me, the frantic nature of crowds, disorganization, people moving different directions at different speeds, their odors and aromas mixing into a giant human stew that tastes of everything and yet nothing at all. I feel the abyss of life, a vast chasm of the unknown, uncertainty, moving and yet standing still. It’s a feeling I know well. Her fear is paralyzing.

I pull away from the hug, rubbing her shoulder reassuringly with soothing energy. The energy of her aura has brought back memories and feelings I’ve been too busy to recall.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my earth,” I say. Kathryn shakes her head, wiping her eyes quickly.

“No.”

“It was pretty different. And not just because I didn’t have a little brother there. My parents were different. I grew up in a small town. Actually no, I grew up fifteen miles outside of a small town,” I correct. “It was very remote. We were extremely isolated, in large part because my father was convinced he was too dangerous around people. He convinced me I was dangerous.”

Kathryn listens silently while the distant memory of an earth long-gone floods my senses.

“I would have lived the same way, isolated on the fringes of society if not for… well, a whole crazy conspiracy that resulted in my father dying and me going off the handle to get revenge. A much longer story,” I say as Kathryn’s eyebrow cocks in curiosity.

“The point is, I came to this world and my parents, the same people, were heroes. I’ve done a lot of thinking and for whatever reason, on this earth, they saw their circumstance as strengths, not weakness. My father learned to control his empathic ability to mobilize large groups of people. I think you’re the same.”

“I’m not following,” says Kathryn.

“You think of the way you feel as a weakness. But strength and weakness is just a matter of perspective. Find a way to make it your strength. You can do great things not in spite of how you feel, but because of it.”

Kathryn laughs unexpectedly. “I hope you’re not charging,” she teases. “The municipal health plan doesn’t have great coverage for therapy.”

“Lucky for you, the first visit is free.”

Kathryn smiles. “I’m glad we can still be friends.”

“Me too,” I say with feeling. “I need someone to share all the craziness with.”

Kathryn opens her arms. “Hit me.”

“Well you heard I’m running for office.”

“I do work for the city,” she comments.

“Right. So that. And last time I visited with the Mayor everything I said started coming true.”

“Really?” asks Kathryn with a laugh. “That’s amazing. I hope you made yourself a millionaire.”

“Sadly, I didn’t realize it was happening since I turned myself invisible.”

“Maybe you can get that ability back. At least make me a millionaire. Do you know where the power came from?”

“Not totally sure,” I say. “The Mayor’s got these stone things… I touched one briefly, and it seems to hold all kinds of potential abilities. I thought I just observed the aura but I guess something transferred.”

“That’s really interesting…” says Kathryn thoughtfully.

“Can we talk about something else,” I interrupt. “Sorry, I just…You’re the only one I can have a normal conversation with.”

Kathryn smiles. “Of course. As long as you don’t mind chatting over a dead body.”

“For me, that counts as normal.”

*

“Rathe!” calls Billy. I groan into my pillow. I stayed at the morgue hours longer than expected talking with Kathryn. I don’t know how Billy manages his late nights at the club and is still up so early in the morning to work on the campaign.

“I’m up!” I grumble. The door cracks open enough to show Billy in profile, taking care to face away.

“Five minutes,” he says warningly. “We need to prepare for your dinner tonight.”

Right. My stupid fundraising dinner. Schmoozing the biggest names and wallets in Port City. How exactly did I end up in this position again? _For Marcus_.

Right. The not-so-veiled threats. I shrug on a loose t-shirt.

But in the past couple days there’s more. I’m being used, absolutely, but in public it feels different. Less like a ruse and more as if I could actually do something. Hep people. Genuine hope and excitement on the faces of those I don’t even know. Neander, Dryadalis, the odd Leporem bold enough to reveal themselves, and most surprisingly, a good number of Sapiens. One Sapiens grandmother who proudly showed me phots of all nine of her grandchildren, lingering on the smallest and confiding she hoped that one would never know how divided we are today. Strangers approach me in public and already I’ve learned to wear hats, use back entrances, and stay unpredictable to avoid the flashes of camera phones and requests for quotes.

When not avoiding the spotlight, I’m being thrust into it directly, such as tonight. Fitted for new clothes, run through extensive prepping by Billy, and coached through every moment. I have never appreciated so much how my father handled these events with such calm. Usually by the time the council is through preparing me I’m a mess, unsure of my handshake, tone, ability to make witty conversation, and itchy in my new clothes.

The floor of Fancy is surprisingly busy for so early. Marcus stands at attention behind the bar with five other bartenders, going over the cocktails for the event. He tosses me a wink and in return I flip him off. Why is everyone so awake?

Yawning, I push open Billy’s office door.

“Sit,” he says, back to the door, finishing notes on the whiteboard behind him. He sits and I see two dozen photos, all with names and two to four facts underneath.

“Oh no,” I groan.

“Oh yes,” Billy responds firmly. “These are the money and you are going to charm the pants off each and every one of them tonight.”

Hours crawl by as Billy drills me on names and family factoids. Finally he waves his hands. I’ve either nailed it to his satisfaction or frustrated him enough that he’s calling it. Success either way. I bolt for the door.

“Not so fast!” Billy calls in a grouchy voice. “Trina is waiting for you in the dressing room with your options for the night.”

I grumble. At least after our first excruciating session together Trina has finally stopped bringing me dress options. The dark-haired, pale Dryadalis strokes the fabric of the suits hanging on her rack thoughtfully. She smiles wanly.

“Rathe Adler,” she says in a lilting voice. “I’m assuming still no to dress wear?”

“That’s correct.”

She inclines her head, mostly hiding her disappointment. Her long fingers extend to display the suits. Despite my lack of interest in formalwear I’m struck by the sleek lines, simplicity, and elegance.

“They’re gorgeous,” I say.

Trina beams, the lines on her face deepening and showing her age. It’s a more attractive look of elegant maturity. I’m drawn to one, a three-piece navy blue. Trina hovers just outside my space, ready to jump in, but careful to not rush my observations. I make a show of examining a couple others, but my mind is made up.

“This one,” I say.

Trina bobs her head, efficiently removing it from the rack as I begin to disrobe. She helps me dress and after a moment in which I spin for her, bend over, raise and lower my arms, she begins tut-tutting and inserting dozens of pins in the jacket, pants, vest, and shirt. The outfit looks like a pincushion when she replaces it back on the rack.

“Ready at five,” she says.

“I’ll be here,” I say with a heavy sigh. Trina looks up from the porcupined clothes.

“You’ll look wonderful,” she encourages.

“Not my worry,” I say. “But thanks.”

Trina doesn’t appear to have moved in the several hours since my fitting, but the pins have been removed from the clothes and they fit snuggly. In spite of myself I grin into the mirror. I look good.

“You’re a genius,” I say.

Trina brushes a strand of hair from her face with a satisfied air.

“You do pull it off well,” she notes. “Good luck.”

“Thanks T.”

The ballroom downtown is in a building I’ve never been into. The large gold-gilded space looks across the water to one of the city’s many shipyards where boats glow against the bay. Live musicians play classical music in the corner and wait staff stand at attention on the edges of the room, ready to accost guests with beverages and appetizers. I sharply exhale the nerves that crawl through my gut.

“You’re going to be fine,” reassures Billy in a low tone. “You greet and smile, then speak your piece, dinner, and a bit more mingling.” He pats me on the back. “You Empathia were made for this kind of thing.”

“Not on my earth,” I mutter.

But in a sense he’s right. As the first guests begin to arrive and I welcome them and chat my nerves disappear. This is easy. The champagne bubbles comfortably in my brain, enough fizz to provide confidence but not so much that I feel muddled. People flow through the door continuously for over an hour, a line beginning to form after about thirty minutes. Yet everyone waits for the chance to shake my hand, much to my embarrassment.

Slowly they parade by, the dozens I have been told to chat up in particular, the ones that want to oogle, and everything in between. Smile, shake, chatter. I can’t even hear what I’m saying anymore, repeating the same few lines for every clump of people. My cheeks hurt and my hand aches. Faces blur into a generic version of a person. I smile blindly, scarcely seeing anyone.

“Have a good time tonight,” I say, placing a guiding hand on my current guest, just in case he doesn’t pick up on my end-of-the-conversation cue.

“Hello, thank you so much for coming,” I say, making contact with the next waiting palm and beaming my winning smile. I can see the end of the line in my periphery and silently try to count. It’s almost over.

“Wow, you clean up well.” The familiar voice tries for sarcasm but falls short. My blurred vision clears.

“Parker? What–”

“Shh,” she says squeezing my hand a bit tighter. “I’m just a constituent tonight.” Her tight tone tells me otherwise but I’m too confused, too desperate to stop the welcome train to ask. “This is my date, Ryan Moore.” Parker smiles uncomfortably at the word date. I shake his hand firmly. What a dud. Brown, dried wood, dust gathering, an old forgotten pair of shoes, even the scent of B.O. deserting.

“Well, I’m delighted you could make it,” I say, turning back to Parker. “You look stunning.” She really does. The long red dress hugs her curves and emphasizes the light streaks in both her hair and eyes.

“You say that to everyone,” she teases lightly.

“Not at all.” I’m drawn to her tiger-striped eyes, green and grey, and down to the swath of clear skin just above her cleavage. I raise her hand to my lips, and bowing slightly kiss her fingertips. She doesn’t resist, her chest rises and falls quickly.

“Enjoy,” I say softly. Parker licks her lips and steps inside quickly. Her “date” follows with a stutter step as she forgets him in the entrance.

I shake my way through the remaining guests, numbly nodding and issuing generic pleasantries. Marcus comes by, dashing in his serving tux, to refresh my champagne glass. Billy escorts me to the table up front, the wealthiest patrons already seated. I raise my glass and amongst the couple hundred people in the room my eye is drawn to Parker in her red dress. Boring Moore ducks his head close to Parker, whispering something.

The wait staff soundlessly flit about, ensuring everyone has a full glass for the toast that will signal the start of the meal. The words pour forth easily, long ago committed to memory and the buzz under my skin doing the remaining work of adding the necessary oratorical flourishes. The energy of the room sways under my control, following a path that I design and I decide.

I try to look everywhere, make every person feel as if I’ve singled them out for attention but my eyes keep wandering back to Parker. Her hair – have I ever seen it down before? – cascades over her shoulders, the full length revealing a wavy quality typically suppressed. She listens intently, her hand unconsciously caressing the V-neck of her dress.

“To Port City,” I say, breaking our gaze for a final sweep of the room. “Long may we prosper. All of us,” I add.

“To Port City,” the crowd echoes approvingly.

The room rings with the sounds of crystal clinking. Being alone onstage I raise my glass, finding Parker’s eye once more, and tip back the contents.

Billy pats me on the back as I sit at the table up front.

“Hard part still to come,” he whispers. “Now we have to make them open their checkbooks.”

I sip from my refilled champagne glass. “That’s all you,” I whisper. The champagne seems to be going to my head for I can feel the belligerence building. Good thing we scheduled the speech for before dinner.

I stay focused through the first course, making charming conversation with all the big names I’ve memorized, but as the waiters clear the unfinished and empty soup bowls I excuse myself. I’m not the only one that’s restless, many people at the dinner seem to be taking the opportunity between courses to circulate. The demure chatter of earlier is steadily being replaced by much louder conversation and raucous laughter.

I amble up to Parker, placing my hand on the back of her chair.

“Enjoying the meal?” I ask, boldly giving her my full gaze. Why not? I know I look good in this custom-made suit and Parker looks smashing. She deserves much better than this lame excuse for a date.

“Wonderful,” she says.

I decide to press my luck. “Come join me up front.”

She stands before remembering Mr. Dull. “Oh, I can’t,” she says with a fluster.

It’s tempting to let it all out. To tell her it’s obvious they have no chemistry, that she can’t take her eyes off me just as much as I can’t take mine off of her. But a small voice in the back of my head reminds me this is for the campaign. I can’t afford to alienate anyone. Even Boring Ryan.

“Of course,” I say. “Then let’s dance.”

I don’t wait for her to respond, but lead her to an open space. Seeing us, the band starts to play, pop songs this time, and a few of the more energetic guests come join us. I spin Parker, admiring her fit figure and pulling her in close so our noses are inches away. Parker surprises me with her own moves, grabbing my hands and guiding them to help her spin and dip in a dance far more risqué than I had in mind. Onlookers applaud and gasp. The music ends with a flourish as Parker wraps one leg around my waist, leaning her body against mine.

The band strikes up another song. I half-expect Billy to yank me by the shoulder but he’s off with the money, playing what appears to be some form of beer pong with the remaining champagne from the toast. Other guests begin to fling leftover bits of soup at the neighboring table. It escalates quickly, both sides quickly overturning the tables for cover as they continue to toss available food at each other in their formalwear.

There’s nowhere private I can take Parker but the food fighters have given me an idea. I tug Parker to the nearest table, pulling her underneath the long tablecloth. Parker leans into me, giggling as vinegar and mustard overtake my senses. My skin vibrates faster than anything I’ve ever felt, faster than my first kiss in the back of a truck under the stars.

Parker leans in willingly, breath hot. Her lips are soft and taste lightly of chapstick. The feel of rough canvas, knotted rope, the sound when the wind snaps against a sail, music playing loud with the windows down on the highway, colors blurring in wavy heat lines, the feel of laughter caught in the throat because it wants to bubble out faster than you can manage. Everything she’s felt I feel as her charm binds us together, and we relive each other’s first kiss.

*

“Fill’er up!” he yells. Soup dribbles down his three thousand dollar suit as a much younger female companion, also accessorizing with soup, grins on his arm.

“I think you might have had enough,” I say gently. “Seltzer water perhaps?”

“Do your damn job!” he bellows.

“Alright,” I say, stepping around the bar. “My job is to keep this place decent from nasty drunks so we’re gonna go for a walk.”

Stiffly I escort him to the door. The crowd seems particularly enthusiastic, actively mingling. Rathe leads Parker to the open bit of floor and a few others follow, eager to dance. I grin. She always knows how to make a scene. It only takes a few minutes to escort the drunk out and turn him over to security but by the time I’ve returned it feels like hours later.

Tables have flipped, guests wrestle and roam about in various states of undress. I beeline for the bar, finding a couple of the bartenders hunched just out of sight, the majority of bottles having been claimed.

“What the hell is happening?” I hiss.

“No idea, man. People are going crazy.”

“Yeah, I can see,” I mutter. An empty soup bottle topples over the bar. I flinch as some of it splashes onto my tux. Keeping my head low, I begin moving towards the kitchen. The chefs have all ceased their preparations and stare into the melee of the ballroom with horror and amusement.

“What went into the soup?” I demand, holding the empty bowl.

“Nothing that would cause _that_ ,” responds the head chef with a tone of indignation.

I growl in frustration. “Fine. What else have they had?”

The head chef waves her arm at several prep stations. “About half a dozen appetizer options. Otherwise just drinks. Your purview I believe,” she adds.

The mess in the ballroom only seems to be intensifying. It looks more like an out-of-control frat party than black-tie political event. Not a single person appears unaffected. But people would have eaten all different appetizers and at all different times. What could account for the effect on everyone and at the same time?

I turn my head sharply. “Where is the champagne?” I ask. “The stuff used for the toast.”

The chef inclines her head. “Show him.”

A member of her staff walks me to the wine cellar. “We were told to use this box for the toast,” he says. “Some kind of special vintage or something.”

I lean down to inspect the box, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for.

“So this wasn’t used for any of the pre-dinner drinks?”

He shakes his head.

“Thanks.” At least I know what I’m dealing with now. All but one of my fellow bartenders have scattered.

“Where’s Rathe?” I ask.

He shrugs frantically, peeling away as an empty bottle shatters over our heads. Hiding is useless I decide, maybe even making it worse. I slip out, observing the craziness in full view. Rathe is nowhere to be seen, so I reach psychically to detect her aura. It floods my senses with her ghost silver, wolf howling at the moon, the smell of mist and hormones. I already know what I’m going to see when I toss the tablecloth aside.

Rathe’s jacket is off and her hands buried in Parker’s thick mane as they kiss. Parker bites on Rathe’s lower lip and growls. Their damp lips part, foreheads together as Parker turns just enough to return my gaze.

“Do you mind?” she says breathlessly. Not quite the reaction I expected. I clear my throat.

“We need to go. Someone is sabotaging this event.”

“You need to go,” Rathe mutters. “She needs to come.”

Parker giggles. This is definitely not going the way I expected.

“Alright, nice guy mode over,” I say, focusing my mind and hoping I can overcome their combined mental abilities. “You two are coming with me.”

Thankfully whatever chemical is causing the teenage-like regression seems to weaken Rathe’s empath ability so I’m able to get them to join me for a ride to the precinct. I am not, however, able to keep them off each other for the duration of the journey, resulting in more than one uncomfortable moment. I tip the driver generously and drag Rathe and Parker by the elbow down to the morgue.

“Kathryn,” I call, not wanting to surprise her. “I’m really sorry, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see but…”

I pause. I haven’t seen her in the week and a half since we ended things. Haven’t spoken. Have done my best to not think about her. I see now how incredibly foolish and stupid that was. Is. Her dark hair is pulled into a half-hearted ponytail, glasses rest low on her nose as she examines the interior of a cadaver with tender delicacy and precision.

“…I need your help,” I finish. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. Carefully she retracts her hands from inside the body, peeling her gloves deliberately. Behind me Rathe and Parker are at it again, their mouths and hands all over each other.

“I take it this is related to the need for help,” says Kathryn, gesturing towards the amorous couple.

“Yep,” I say, refusing on principle to turn my head. I yank Rathe’s arm and ignore her protest as I pull her away from Parker. “Someone tampered with the champagne at an event. Everyone’s been affected. Not quite like this. But acting bizarre.”

“You need me to do a blood test and develop and antidote,” Kathryn says.

I blink. I haven’t really thought that far ahead. “Exactly,” I say.

Efficiently Kathryn nods, studying her two patients. “I’m going to recommend sedation for both,” she says mildly. “Just to make it easier.”

“Please.”

Once Rathe and Parker have been sedated it’s easy to separate and lightly restrain them. Kathryn draws blood silently, once from Rathe and once from Parker, and begins an endless process of moving the blood from one vial to another in what appears to be a distillation.

“I’ve isolated something,” she says talking into the microscope. “Unusual chemical present in both of their samples.” Carefully she mixes something and releases a single drop onto the sample slide, burying her head back in the microscope. She bites her lip in concentration, slowly adjusting the magnification. It’s easy to forget this is the same woman that quakes with fear in crowds. She’s all confidence and focus. As I stare, her aura shifts and I find I can’t look away from the images revealed by her dreams.

“Marcus, why did you leave?” she asks suddenly, her usually passive face stern as she meets my gaze.

“I couldn’t be with you,” I say. The words sound even weaker aloud.

“Why not?” The question sounds more like an accusation. A moral failing.

 “Because I can’t control myself. Because what if I make you do things you don’t want? What if all you feel for me is a lie? If it’s just a projection of how I feel about you?”

Kathryn eyes me evenly, her resolve to remain angry waning slightly against the pressure of our direct eye contact.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” says Kathryn. “If you don’t trust your own ability to read me…Trust that I know myself.”

“But we’ve done more than…” I struggle with shame, “than you wanted.” The memory burns, even through the wall of stone I encased it in within my mind. The night she invited me back to her apartment after her shift. How we kissed and lost all sense of time. How my hand slipped beneath the band of her pants and…

“I was scared, ok?” says Kathryn. “I’m allowed to be scared Marcus. It doesn’t mean I’m afraid of you.” She glances at Rathe and Parker, sleeping calmly.

“Sometimes I wish I could let it all go,” she says. “Like them. Take what I want.” Her eyes don’t leave my face but it’s no longer confrontational. She pierces me, I’m the one that is laid bare, that is afraid. The dream version of me, the one that isn’t afraid, approaches Kathryn and takes her, leads her into the bedroom where their energies mingle and merge.

With a start, I realize Kathryn has moved back to the work bench. Smoothly she extracts some of her sample into a long, thin syringe. The needle dips into Rathe’s arm. Rathe rouses slightly with a whimper.

“How do you feel?” asks Kathryn.

“Hung over,” moans Rathe. “What happened?”

“I think it worked,” says Kathryn. She spins back to the table to mix more vials. “I can turn this into an aerosol. That way you can easily cure everyone at the event.”

“How?”

“Well, ideally you can spray directly into the ventilation system,” Kathryn says. “But spraying into the closed room will also work. Though it may take longer.”

“No,” I say. “How do you do it?”

Kathryn cocks her head.

“I need you to believe that I want to be with you,” I say. “I want you to see what I see.”

“The only person in this room without any special ability?”

I shake my head. “The only person in this room that knew immediately how to solve the problem,” I say. “You’re right. I should have trusted you.”

I extend my hand, reaching into her space until my fingers touch the edge of her scrubs. I’ve never shared empathically but something instinctive takes over, guiding my thoughts and energy, focusing my mind on a single objective. The room ignites in color and sensation and I focus it all on the hand making contact with Kathryn. Light flows onto her skin, circling and absorbing such that for a moment she appears to glow. Kathryn gasps. I release my touch and a wave of dizziness sweeps over.

“I want to be with you,” I say. “Exactly as you are. If you’ll have me.”

Kathryn pauses, eye widening.

“Marcus…” she says, “are you afraid? Of me?”

“Terrified.” I want to tell her that I’ve never met someone like her, so strong yet so vulnerable. That I’m afraid I’m not enough or that she’ll realize I’m all flair and no substance.

She places her hands on my cheeks and not able to stand the tension I squeeze my eyes, bracing for a slap or whatever else I deserve. Warm air rushes across my skin, soft as fleece, smelling of a field on a spring day. She releases the kiss gently.

“I want to be with you Marcus Adler,” she says. “Exactly as you are.”


	19. Stories We Tell

Billy isn’t pleased the fundraiser went so far awry but somehow I end up with credit in _The City Portend_ , so he reckons it all comes out in the wash. Donations for the campaign flood in after the story breaks. “Hero Candidate Detects Noxious Fumes; Leads All to Safety.”

“Man, those people will do anything to cover up the presence of the mystical,” I marvel.

Billy glances up from his tabulating. “Trying to contain a panic.” He sets his reading glasses aside. “The good news is the big names are all willing to offer substantial donations. Likely in the hopes that any bad behavior of theirs will be forgotten.”

“Works for me.” I’d just as soon people forget any behavior of mine from that night as well. A memory washes across my lips, the ghost of Parker’s teeth grazing my skin, promising more, her hand tracing the outline of my rib cage and dipping into the space above my hips.

I swallow drily. “So, what’s next?” I say. “Another fundraiser? Going door-to-door? Debate?”

Billy arches an eyebrow. “You seem suddenly very interested,” he remarks.

I shrug. “Don’t want to lose momentum.”

It’s only half a lie. Truthfully, it’s hard to not get excited about the uptick in the polls. Coverage has changed from my position as a novelty candidate to someone with an actual chance. I can’t help wondering if Billy and the Council are surprised. I’m supposed to serve as a distraction, not to actually win this thing. But what if I could?

“Very well,” he says. “It’s time to set your narrative. You’ve gotten the attention of the wider community, but they still aren’t sure what your story is. We need to tell them.”

He spins in his chair, snagging a thin, worn book from his shelf.

“Rathe, are you familiar with the story of Prymia?”

*

Waking up with the woman of my dreams in my arms must be how it feels to fly. I’m soaring far above the world, removed from all its petty worries, blissfully free. Kathryn shifts and carefully I adjust my arm until she settles with her head using my arm as a pillow. Her top arm twitches outside of the covers, ruffles on the end of the long sleeve oscillating for several seconds after. It takes all of my self-control to not press my body into hers more tightly. I wouldn’t want to abuse her trust when she finally let me sleep over, on the condition that we would both remain fully clothed.

Anyways, I’m far more intrigued by a new possibility. As my energy focuses on the sleeping Kathryn I feel the world of her unconscious state manifest. I’m looking through the mirror into the world of her dream, able to watch, or more terrifying, step inside.

Hesitantly I approach the threshold, gazing in. Kathryn’s dreamworld has become familiar to me since I’ve begun reading dreams. The settings and themes repeating in endless and fascinating combination. This one features the pool of her youth, overpowering scent of chlorine and long black lines on the bottom. Kathryn cuts through the water effortlessly, powerful, and in control. She owns this moment, flipping at the wall for the next lap without pause.

The rough tile scratches oddly against my feet as the chlorine floods my senses. There’s no more on this side of the pool, Kathryn’s consciousness hasn’t bothered to extend the setting that far. The hazy edge creeps in as her attention focuses on the finish. Crap. I tumble into the pool, throwing my hands over my head.

The water opens to catch me and I’m floating on an innertube, completely dry but waves rocking the race. Kathryn touches the wall with a final reach, raising her head with a glare aimed at the idiot that ruined her perfect race.

“Hi,” I say with a small wave.

Kathryn blinks several times from two lanes over. “How–”

She shivers in my arms, lashes fluttering out the remaining sleep from her eyes. She half-turns to face me with a smile.

“Marcus,” she says.

“Kathryn,” I respond, kissing her nose. “Sweet dreams?”

She regards me curiously. “I think so,” she finally says. She rolls back over, shimming her body closer to mine. “Is this ok?” she asks. I’m gratefully to Rathe for patiently teaching me mediation and control, otherwise I have a feeling my immediate reaction might not have been ok given the boundaries she laid out last night.

“It’s perfect,” I say, willing the blood to rush anywhere else; to my hands, feet, face.

Kathryn giggles. “Not too much?” she asks, pressing her backside into my groin. In response I grind my hips slowly against her, my lip brushing her ear.

“Oh baby, I’ve got better control than that,” I say, making sure to nip her earlobe. “If you want something, you’re going to have to try much, much harder.”

Kathryn’s breath hitches in her throat. “How much harder?” she asks.

*

“Prymia is the first,” Billy says. “The beginning. The start of the human race.”

He begins to move about the room as if lecturing and I find myself leaning forward to catch every word.

“Prymia came from the sky, and upon arriving on earth was welcomed into existing human society as a miracle. She married and gave birth to three children. The oldest, Dryadalis, was said to be graceful beyond belief and brought art and music into society. The second, Neander, was known for his brilliance and is widely considered the forefather of science; while the final child, Sapiens proved adept at nearly everything, though remarkable in none. However, Sapiens was the first of the three to provide Prymia with a grandchild, Leporem, on whom she doted endlessly.”

Billy pauses to assess my comprehension.

“Just so we’re on the same page, this is allegorical?” I ask.

“Correct,” he says. “Returning to our story, the three siblings lived in harmony for many years until the young Leporem reached adolescence, upon which she fell extremely, inexplicably ill. Seeing this, Prymia called upon her children to find a cure, for she loved her grandchild more than anything else in the world. Dryadalis brought the child comfort through music, but could not improve her health. Neander took to the lab to study the issue, but again, to no avail. Sapiens sat Leporem down, and asked the child what was wrong. Why did they feel this way? Leporem shared her tale of pain, a sense of incompleteness. Sapiens retrieved what remained of Prymia’s journey to earth, brought it back to the child, and the ritual of chrysalis was born.”

Billy begins to pace.

“That is the story everyone knows, but there is a second, less well-known part. A prophesy about the future. It speaks of a war between the descendants of Prymia that will destroy the world.”

“I can see why parents leave that part out,” I say.

“Unless,” Billy continues, “another traveler from the sky can unite them again. Just as Leporem united them in purpose originally. Another child of humanity and the sky.”

A sick feeling begins to rise from my gut. Billy knew my father, but it seems Ethar Adler had been tight-lipped about his alien heritage. How does Billy know?

“Marcus,” I say softly with a shake of the head. I can’t blame him. He was so young when he met Billy, and desperate for someone to take care of him. No wonder Billy has been so accommodating to me. Willing to do so much to keep me on board. He literally believes this dumb story, the prophesy, all of it.

“Sorry, buddy,” I say, shoving back the chair to stand. “I am not about to become your messiah figure.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Billy responds. “Your father’s origin is more than just idle speculation. It’s only a matter of time before the media begins to look into.”

He regards me evenly. “The more we get ahead of the story, the better. Think of it as your chance to define it. To decide how humanity should be reunited. And whether we require Sapiens around.”

*

“What’s this?” I say, hopping out of Kathryn’s bed and grabbing the first thing of interest I see. In this case, an old, thin book with the front cover hanging on by a thread. I turn the book in my hands. It really is lovely. Clearly an early edition with engraved lettering in gold against the dark fabric. Well-worn though, as if read often.

Kathryn laughs from her reclined position on the bed. “You’re telling me you’ve never read the _Prymis_?”

“Oh,” I say, gently flipping the cover over. I’m only a bit disappointed that she lets our flirting go. “Of course I have. Though probably not since second grade.” The interior is gorgeous as well. Slightly raised lettering tickles my fingertips and hand-drawn pictures line the edges of every page. “Why on earth would you want a copy of this?”

Firmly Kathryn lifts the book from my hands, taking over the delicate job of turning the pages without causing damage.

“I like it,” she says simply. “It’s a beautiful story.”

“Really? You don’t feel gypped at all?”

Kathryn glances up in surprise. “Why should I feel that way?”

“Well, uh. I mean it’s all a fairy tale but Sapiens are kind of the odd ones out. The normal, boring one. You don’t get to be the hero.”

Kathryn frowns. “I don’t think of it that way,” she says. “I think Sapiens are essential. Ultimately they solve the problem. And without Sapiens they fall apart. Dryadalis and Neander become too distracted with the esoteric. Sapiens are practical.” She smiles at me as she turns the page.

“I like the idea that they all need each other. They make each other better.”

“I never thought of it like that,” I admit.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me,” she replies.

*

“Detective Parker!”

I snap to attention. Shit. I’ve been doodling on my case notes again. Where is my mind today? Oh right, wandering down Rathe’s fit torso. She’s definitely been working out since waking from the coma. Her suit from the other night really flattered her torpedo figure. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat belly, and pert little backside. The kind that just asked for a quick little smack…

“Parker!” the Captain hollers again.

I jump. The Captain gestures impatiently. I flip notes over hurriedly, not caring that they aren’t properly covered. Who is going to stop and look anyway? The Captain holds the door as I enter his office, a small act which in retrospect should have tipped me off to something different. A face I know but have never seen in person sits behind the desk. The Captain bumps into me, pushing me the remaining two feet into the room.

“You must be Detective Parker,” says the Mayor. She’s larger in person than I expect. A good six inches taller than me, I feel unusually small in her presence. Her energy fills the room leaving no space for oxygen. I stand  uncertainly beside the Captain, one empty chair before us.

“Sit,” she commands.

I obey immediately. Too quickly it seems, but that thought fades from my mind almost instantly. A small smile plays across the face of the Mayor.

“I suppose you want to know why I’ve asked to speak with you.”

I don’t really. It feels too dangerous but the tug of her control compels me to respond. The words pass from my lips of their own accord.

“Yes ma’am.”

The Mayor smiles approvingly. “You’re a smart girl,” she comments. “So I’m guessing you’ve worked out who is in charge of Scrimner?”

I sense there is no need to respond. The Mayor spins her fingers around each other in a mesmerizing pattern.

“I appreciate all the work you’ve done on our behalf. My behalf,” she adds. “Most recently you attended the fundraiser of my political opponent. Unfortunately that event did not play out quite as I intended, but I have since learned of a very interesting development.” She pauses. “I wonder if you have any thoughts on that.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say. My tongue feels sticky and thick in my mouth. I might be getting ill. The Mayor leans forward and her overwhelming presence dizzies me, confuses me.

“I didn’t realize you had a…shall we say personal relationship with my opponent.”

“I…don’t.” The pressure in my head is nearly blinding. Vision blurs and I can focus only on one point fixated in the Mayor’s space.

“Don’t be coy,” says the Mayor. “I’m not upset. Quite the opposite. Numerous witnesses, including your partner, at the event have already attested to the special attention you received upon entry. Tell me. Are you as taken with Ms. Rathe Adler as she appears to be with you?”

“I…”

I don’t know. I want to lie, to deflect but my self-control deserts me. My heart beats against my throat, further suffocating.

“Tell me,” the Mayor growls. Her face appears to melt away, revealing a dark underside, a thin gaping jaw with sickly tendons and dark blood. A moan fills the room and in my haze it takes me a moment to realize it’s mine.

The pressure lets up as her expression shifts.

“Captain, please leave us.”

He nods curtly and exits, closing the door tightly behind him. The blinds are closed. I suspect if she wanted the Mayor could kill me with just her mind. No one would see and no one would care. I grimace in anticipation of the pain of her invading my head again. But she’s softer this time, although her presence in my thoughts still unnerves me.

“You’re Leporem,” the Mayor remarks. “I wonder what your friend the Captain would do if he knew. Or any of the other fine officers here. You shouldn’t have made it through the initial assessment for law enforcement. But I can guess how you made that work.”

“It’s not like th–”

Stop talking,” she interrupts. My mouth closes involuntarily. “Your problem is that you don’t know your own worth. Normally I’d leave you to suffer the consequences. Set an example. But you have managed to bring something special. Ms. Adler appears quite taken with you. And from what I see of your thoughts, the feeling is mutual.”

I hold my breath, willing my mind to clear, to banish anything I know, anything inadvertently overheard from Rathe.

“Well that’s interesting,” she breathes, leaning forward to study me. I fix my expression into neutral, focusing my eyes on a vague point behind her as she probes my mind. Involuntarily my heart rate increases as the memory of Rathe pressed against me beneath the table returns.

“A Leporem in love with Ms. Adler is most useful to me. Almost…prophetical.” Vague images, half-formed words of mentalese creep into my thoughts. Her thoughts. I’m no longer sure which mind I’m in. I shake the haze from my head, breaking free of the hold.

“I don’t want…”

“You will do as I say,” she interrupts, tightening her control, the unbearable pressure returning to my skull. “You will or you shall be exposed. There is nothing left for you outside of whatever protection I can offer. To your people you’re a traitor. And to the people here, you’re a freak.”

The Mayor smiles unkindly. “So sit tight, pet. And take care to not anger me.”

*

“Hey Gordy, busy?” The long Dryadalis gazes up laconically. “Not really. What’s up?”

I sit down next to him, compressing his legs into a curl to make space.

“Just looking for some company,” I say. “And maybe…Well. An opinion.” His oversized dark eyes shine with interest.

“An opinion? Hit me!”

“Prymia,” I say. Gordy groans. “I know, I know. Or I think I do. I gather it’s a thing here.”

“Yeah it is,” responds Gordy with an eye roll. “My father loves that crap. A lot of Dryadalis and Neander do. These days it’s really their argument for relevance.”

“How so?”

“Well because the whole concept is that they all need each other. Balance and all that. While Sapiens would like to forget we ever came first.”

“So that’s it? Just a story?”  

Gordy shrugs. “Pretty much. No better or worse than any other.”

My phone buzzes. Parker.

_Let’s talk. Your place._

I appreciate her forwardness.

“Thanks G,” I say standing. “Got a hot date coming over.”

“Parker?” teases Gordy.

“Actually, yeah,” I say. A rush of warmth fills my cheeks. I should be embarrassed but I find I’m just happy. Happy she wants to see me, happy she trusts me. Why not? I’ve seen no visions lately to suggest I have more time than promised. Maybe I should let go and enjoy the time I do have.

“Later, buddy.”

Gordy waves me out of the room and stupidly I rush up to my room and quickly change clothes. Something a bit nicer, maybe fitted, that smells clean. I nearly return to my room to change half a dozen times while waiting for Parker to arrive. She finally pulls up in her tiny yellow convertible, hair in a disarray and wild look in her eyes. I definitely misjudged the situation.

“Your room, now,” she hisses urgently grabbing my elbow despite the fact that she couldn’t lead the way even if she wanted. Maybe I haven’t misjudged. Her aura sways back and forth as we ascend the two flights of stairs to my makeshift room. Her desire swirls wildly even as she fights it. Parker can’t bring herself to look at me until the door closes behind us. With a strained breath she gazes up.

“Gods, why does your room have to be so small,” she says.

“Because it normally isn’t a bedroom,” I say. “And you specifically requested here.” I sit against the couch, leaving it to her to decide whether or not she wants to join. Her scent carries in waves through the room, strong one moment and gone the next.

“I need your help,” she says, voice strained. “You promised once…that you could teach me…control.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” The disappointment in my voice must be palpable for she turns her gaze to face me more directly.

“Rathe, I can’t,” she says. “I thought I could. I thought it would be enough to help in my way. But she’s right. I’m no one. No where. I’m caught in between every side and now I’ve let this happen…”

There’s a pain, a fracture in her aura. The mustard and olive green splits and circles in distress, reaching but not connecting, a word on the tip of the tongue, incomplete déjà vu. I can’t help it when my energy extends and in the confined space reflects her energy. We become two sides of the same coin, drawn together, mouths meeting in the middle of the space and falling as one onto the old couch.

Parker peels off her shirt in one motion, straddling my hips and rocking against me.

“Say that you want me,” she whispers. My hand slides up her smooth skin, beneath her bra which she willingly removes. All I see is her.

“Dana…” I say into my kiss.

“Yes?”

“I want you.”

She growls into my mouth and in that space I see the reason for her fractured aura.

Parker sitting before the Mayor. _A Leporem in love with Ms. Adler is most useful to me_. Parker resists. She tries, really does, but she is no match for whatever combination of powers the Mayor sports today. Her mind cracks, laid open and exposed. Everything she’s thought about me, dreamed, and felt I feel in that moment. Her fear of being found out, isolation, certainty of death.

Our lips separate.

“You stopped,” Parker says breathlessly.

“Yeah, I, um.” Uncomfortably I push myself up from my reclined position, hating the question I have to ask. “Are you possessed?”

Parker leans back. “So you saw?”

I nod.

“No. At least, I don’t think so,” Parker responds carefully. “But when I was there, she could control everything I did. It’s why I wanted to talk first but…” Her eyes flit to my lips and then down.

“My fault.”

“No one’s fault.”

The silence lands heavily between us. I hear Parker’s heart still beating quickly, smell her arousal, feel her thrall reaching for my energy.

“No one does it alone,” I say, more to myself than anything. I’m not sure where the words come from.

“What?”

The next vision is clearer, sharper. Of course Parker couldn’t infiltrate Scrimner alone. Just as I can’t overcome her alone. I clear my throat.

“Actually,” I say. “This may be a good way to kick off your training. But maybe get dressed first.”

“Right,” says Parker with embarrassment.

“Hey don’t worry. If your training goes well, I’ll be the one without any clothes on later.”

Parker’s hazel eyes shift and shine.

“Let’s get started then.”

*

I peer into the morgue, hiding the picnic basket behind my back. This time of night Kathryn typically takes a break if it’s not too busy. Only a single corpse waits for examination in the center of the room, nude and untouched. Kathryn peers into a microscope on the lab bench, taking notes. She glances up with a guilty expression as I approach, swinging the basket into view.

“Hi Marcus,” she says. “Just, uh, running some tests.” She gestures vaguely to the uncovered corpse.

“Right,” I say. “Except Mr. So-and-so hasn’t had any blood drawn yet. And you’re a crappy liar.”

Kathryn’s throat bobs nervously and I can’t help laughing.

“Geez Kat, it’s me. You couldn’t possibly be doing anything I would really care about. But since it bothers you so much, forget I asked,” I say. Truthfully I probably wouldn’t understand anyways.

“Alright,” Kathryn says uncertainly. She bites her lip. “It’s about Rathe.”

“Rathe?”

“Yeah… Her blood samples,” Kathryn says. She speaks quickly, anxious to get the words out, needing to share but afraid of my reaction.

“She mentioned something about absorbing potential… I wanted to understand how that might work.”

I set the basket down on the floor. “And?”

“And it’s really fascinating,” Kathryn confesses. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because it’s your sister. And I’m studying her. Without her knowledge.”

“Trust me. It’s generally best to do things without Rathe’s knowledge.”

Kathryn laughs nervously. Her aura hesitates. I don’t push for I can tell she needs to get this out.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

Kathryn takes a deep breath. “I think Rathe’s cells contain an element of chrysalis. We’ve been thinking it’s mystical or alien. But it’s not.”

“What is it?”

“For lack of a better way of explaining…It’s fabric of the multiverse. I think Prymia must have been a traveler from another multiverse as well.”


	20. Underneath

“How does this work?” asks Parker.

“First you need to learn some basic meditation. It’s the foundation for controlling your powers as well as mitigating the influence of others on you.”

She rolls her eyes which I expect, but less expected is when she crosses her legs and begins the standard breath control routine. So she knows the basics.

“Great,” I say. I probe her energy gently, suppressing a grin. Rookie. She’s solidly in the relaxation zone, but definitely not true meditation. Breaking her focus will be easy. Not to mention fun.

“Now the goal is to withstand my influence,” I explain, letting my mind wander to the soft skin between her thighs. Her eyes fly open, striped and pale.

“That’s not fair!”

“And I suppose it was fair when the Mayor invaded your consciousness?”

Her eyes flutter. “No.”

“Right. At least when I do it I’ll be nice. Ish. So try again.”

She refocuses with a bit more effort this time. I wait for her aura to settle into clean waves before reaching out. My thoughts wander to her scent, to the way her body feels pressed against mine with such need. It’s barely anything but Parker’s focus shatters instantly, much too fragile to withstand my simple assault. She exhales hungrily, eyes fixed on mine. I see the thread she controls between us but it’s putty, easily stretched and manipulated.

“Again,” I say. “You need to build up your defenses. Meditation isn’t just breathing and poses. It’s finding that place in your mind that’s fortified, protected.”

I crouch down to her level, extending a hand.

“I want to show you something,” I say.

Hesitantly she takes my hand and I lead her into my mind. I try to not come here often, for it brings back bad memories. It’s why I built this place. Tall stone walls climb high to the sky, meeting the swirling dark clouds above. Tiny slits provide the only access to the outside world. Parker stares, not at the walls of my mind fortress but out, and with horror I notice the souls that circle this otherwise deserted landscape. Ghosts of the ones I’ve manipulated, the handful I’ve killed, others not dead but lives ruined.

“Rathe,” she says softly.

The walls of the fortress grow thicker, darker. If I’m going to let her inside it needs to happen now, before she says anything more. One touch and the walls surround us, blocking out the memories and dark sky overhead. But it’s not enough. I led her to the true sanctuary, the cool and dim space below. Racks of wine line the walls, each one neatly labeled with varietal and vintage, all untouched. All I hear is the echo of my own footsteps through the cellar. The outside world can’t penetrate. The safest place I know. Everything here is in its place, properly archived and controlled.

We emerge together back into the cramped lounge space that doubles as my room. Parker’s tiger-striped eyes stare at me and I shiver involuntarily. _She’ll never love you now_. Not after the glimpse of the ghosts that haunt me. Not that it would have been love. More likely lust born of our shared ability to connect. Nothing real. A soft hand caresses my cheek and kisses away the tears I didn’t realize were falling.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

I didn’t know what I want to say. What I could say. I’m a monster. Yes, I’ve killed people, out of nothing more noble than fear. Sure, they were “bad” in the sense that one side is good, but they were people with families and lives. I’m not a hero. Not a leader. Nothing more than a scared child bouncing between universes.

Her hands slide through my hair, massaging tension from the back of my neck. She’s afraid, but not of me. For me. I stop her movement with my hand, sliding away.

“Rathe, you can’t shut down,” she says. “I won’t let you die.”

Buzzing fills my ears. “What?” She shouldn’t have seen that. It’s a vision, not a ghost. I didn’t even see that.

“We can stop it,” she says. “I can help you.” Her expression changes suddenly from compassionate to hurt. “Is that…why you opened up? Do you want to be with me because it means nothing? Because you know it ends?”

“No!” I’m speaking much louder than I need to, trying to overcome the buzzing in my head warning me that I’ve shared too much.

“I wanted you to see my mind fortress. I didn’t realize all that other…stuff would be there.”

“Rathe…” Parker says, anger beginning to creep into her voice. I think I might vomit. “Tell me the truth.”

She presses against my mind, the army green thread stronger than before, more determined. I can choose to let her in or block the way. In my indecision the way remains closed.

“Make me,” I growl. The yellow and green waves retreat, the heady aroma of mustard fills my senses, slight grit, rough linen, sweat, salt like the ocean. Not a bad effort, but not nearly enough.

“Again,” I say. The wave batters the stone wall, foam rushing over rocks, seeking the edge and any loose opening. But the walls are airtight. She strikes again and again. The ocean vanishes into a dry desert, sand whipping into a wild storm that obscures everything and cuts my eyes. Tiny flecks pierce the skin, drawing blood from a thousand microscopic cuts. I move through Parker’s sandstorm until her shape becomes visible. The sand falls at our feet. I raise my bloodied arms, wounds already healing.

“Again.”

“Why do you want me to hurt you?” Parker asks. She breathes heavily even though there’s no need in this space. An artifact that carries over from reality. But it’s harmless. And it will help me gauge her progress.

“I need to know that you are strong enough,” I respond.

“Strong enough for what?”

“To survive.”

Parker growls in frustration. “I don’t believe you,” she says.

“I don’t care,” I retort. The sands darken into the wet soil of the vineyard, thick thorny vines sprouting at my feet and curling towards Parker.

“Fine. You want me to hurt you? How’s this?”

The apparition appears next to Parker suddenly. Dark brown eyes, short reddish hair, sassy smile, DEO blacks… Alex Danvers smiles at something. Somehow Parker has extracted her from another plane of my mind. Alex’s mouth moves in soundless words. Her arms cross and uncross, coming to rest on her hips. I remember this moment but can’t place it.

“Where?” I ask in confusion. The vines shrivel and vanish without my concentration.

“Same place I found this one,” Parker replies. The blonde stands the same height as Alex, long hair hanging loose as she confidently spins a staff in her hand, the other remaining outstretched as she beckons her opponent.

Parker’s eyes squint in concentration. “Lance?” she says.

“Sara.”

The memory ghosts of my two first loves silently reenact their separate scenes side by side. Crossing paths but not quite, fractured by differences in time and space.

Parker touches Sara, or rather reaches through the golden haze that surrounds her, touching my shoulder as Sara’s form shimmers and dances away.

“You have to let them go Rathe. This guilt. Loss. Anger. It’s destroying you.” Parker’s eyes penetrate my own and I realize I’ve let my guard down. We stand in the center of my fortress. She’s brought memories I don’t want inside, through the door, against my will.

A horrible noise rises from the pit of my stomach. Silver waves ripple and the fortress from which I sought refuge for so many things since arriving on this Earth implodes in a crack of thunder, raining rocks and debris on our heads until I’m buried under the rubble, away from the light and muffled from the sound of my own echoing scream. Vaguely I see Parker’s form crumple to the ground as the stones continue their relentless fall between us.

*

“Hey Gordy, how’s it hanging?” I toss my jacket on my still-made bed, sniffing my clothes experimentally. I should probably change while I’m back. Gordy smirks.

“How’s Kathryn?” he teases.

I chuck my smelly shirt at him. “It’s not like that. We’re taking it slow.”

“Right.”

“We are!” I insist. “Do you know where Rathe is?”

Gordy points into the hallway. She must be in her room. I rummage through the drawer for a fresh shirt.

“I’d be careful though,” Gordy adds. “Parker’s over and they’ve been in there for a while.” His tone suggests a little more might be known about the situation. I’m curious but need to stay focused.

“Well, that’s fine. In fact, that’s great, because I really wanted to talk to you.”

“To me?” Gordy snaps his laptop closed, sitting up with interest. “Really?” he says hopefully.

“Really. It’s, um, kind of a delicate matter.”

Gordy’s eyes widen impossibly. “I can do delicate!” he says in a loud whisper.

I cringe and side-step to the door, closing it enough that we will have some warning if someone enters, but keeping it cracked slightly so no one gets alarmed. Closed doors inevitably arouse suspicion in this place. Gordy watches me from his vantage point on top of the bunk bed. With a quick step and jump I hop up beside him. The bunk rocks for a moment before settling. The door remains closed.

My palms dampen my clean shirt. Gordy’s a cool guy, but his father is a member of the Council. I hope I haven’t horribly misjudged him.

“Gordy, what do you know about the plan of the Resistance?”

Gordy rolls his eyes. “Please no. Don’t drag me into that. I know you’re putting us up, but…I can’t.”

I can’t hold back the laugh. Perfect response. Gordy appears mildly insulted.

“Trust me, dude, this is not for the Resistance.” I lower my voice. “Kathryn found a way to eliminate the Mayor’s hold. Something that doesn’t require a sham election, or rebellion, or thousands of people to die.” I watch Gordy carefully as I speak, half an eye on the closed door. “But we could really us your help.”

“I’m in,” says Gordy immediately. “What do you need?”

“A lot,” I say. “And don’t commit too quickly. This is still very dangerous.”

“I want in,” Gordy repeats without annoyance. “We’re brothers now right? I’ve got your back.”

Guileless brown eyes take me in. For the first time I feel deeply jealous of Gordy. His smooth, easy aura appears to have suffered none of the damage most people carry by this point in their lives. Everything he is and wants lives right on the surface, unashamed and unembarrassed about how anyone else might feel, or how he makes them feel. A sudden lump rises in my throat and I blink quickly.

“That’s right, man,” I say gruffly. “Brothers.”

Awkwardly we embrace in the way men do when about to cry in public. I take a deep breath to steady my voice.

“We need to break into City Hall.”

Gordy outstretches his long arms wide. “Dude, you thought that required a special request?”

“I’m serious. This is dangerous.”

Gordy laughs confidently. “Trust me. By the time I’ve finished hacking their systems, you’ll have an office there. Easy. Peasy.”

*

“Training over,” I say. Parker’s breath is hot on my cheek. I don’t know when she closed the distance between us. I must have gone deeper into my mind than I thought. We both did. I feel the gaping hole in the back of my head where I’ve isolated those memories, the ones I didn’t want anymore. The airlock has been opened and now they’ll freeze in the vacuum of space. It’s for the best.

I shuffle away from Parker.

“That’s it?” she says. “You’re just giving up.” The distain in her voice cuts but I try to ignore it, forcing my gaze away.

“You’re untrainable. Too new to your ability and outmatched against the Mayor’s rotating power-of-the-day. It’s safer for you to just go. That way you can’t give away any more away than you already have.” I can’t resist the little dig and she cringes as the blow lands.

“Like the fact that you’re going to die?” asks Parker.

Ice coats my skin at the same time my face flushes to an uncomfortable boil.

“I told you to forget it,” I say.

Parker doesn’t blink as I stare her down. My heart beats too fast and too high, elevated to my throat.

“Does Marcus know?” she asks quietly, almost sympathetically. It’s the sympathy that really gets me. The fury rises quickly. I stand, forcing Parker off the couch and into the door.

“Out,” I yell. “Get out! And don’t speak to anyone on the way.”

The door slams as Parker stumbles her way out of the cramped space. Footsteps retreat in a rush down the stairs and only then do I feel the prick of shame at not having the courage to respond to her question. At not being able to tell my brother, my friends, the truth about the time I have left on this earth.

*

The door to the little lounge, currently acting as Rathe’s bedroom, slams. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it slam, but the sound is unquestionably from there.

“Shit!”

I leap off the top bunk but unsurprisingly Gordy beats me. He’s out the door and down the steps before I make it past the threshold. I slow my step.

The door to the little lounge remains firmly closed, nothing visible through the thick curtain. But the space smells of grass and mud, it tastes of salty brine and oversweet grapes left on the vine too long. My heart breaks with crushing loss, a black hole of emotion, the kind of pain that rips your vocal cords from the throat, puts them in a blender and leaves you too raw to even cry. I have to step away to avoid being sucked into Rathe’s homesick aura.

Gordy has captured Parker on the next floor but seems unsure of next steps. Parker waits with her arms crossed, an increasingly dark glare for Gordy. Hints of Rathe cling to Parker, silver mist that got stuck to her sharp edges. It slowly dissipates as we walk, the mist pulling back to its source in longer lines until it snaps and drifts away.

“I’m really not in the mood,” Parkers says through clenched teeth.

“I know.” I can’t help but respond a bit pointedly, which shuts her up.

Several of the girls are in the big lounge so we huddle in the kitchen, keeping close lookout for anyone that may come down for a bite to eat. I rummage through the pantry. Food certainly couldn’t hurt Parker’s sour mood and Gordy’s stomach needs something to keep the rumbling to a minimum. I toss a half-eaten package of cookies onto the table as Parker pulls up a stool. Reluctantly she tries one. Might as well dive right in.

“We need you to help us infiltrate Scrimner.”

Maybe the cookies were a bad idea, for Parker chokes on her bite, coughing up bits of cookie crumb. Uncomfortably Gordy pats her on the back.

“Since…uh…you’re under cover there,” I continue. “We’ve got a way to make it right. Gordy will help with access but, uh, your help would be appreciated.”

Parker releases a horrible, guttural cough and places her head against her hand. Unexpectedly she starts laughing.

“You have terrible timing,” she says.

“Why?” asks Gordy.

Parker gestures to the floors above. “I was trying to get Rathe to train me so I could help.” Gordy grins widely but Parker waves it off. “Except…she…well she won’t.”

Parker’s discouragement manifests much more prominently than I would expect.

“That’s fine. We don’t need you to do anything like th–”

“The Mayor can read thoughts,” Parker interrupts. “That’s one of the abilities in her stone things apparently.”

Parker bites her lip. So the Mayor already knows, at least whatever Parker knows. And possibly what Parker is. The realization seems to hit Gordy at the same time.

“Are you in danger?” Gordy asks. Genuine concern.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Parker keeps her gaze fixed on the steel table, just in front of the cookies. “It depends what information I have. Unfortunately…”

She bites her lip again. Spots of blood dot the indent when she moves.

“Rathe showed you something,” I finish.

“Yes.”

I study Parker. Worry lines her face, dark frames her eyes. Stress, fear, longing, a kind of emptiness, hopelessness. I’ve seen this pattern before, years ago, during a dark time in my life.

“Is the Mayor going to…?”

“Yes,” Parker says.

I reach for a cookie. Slightly stale but still chewy on the inside.

“You should go then,” I say.

“What about…”

“Do what you can to delay it,” I say. Rathe must have taught her something. Maybe that will be enough.

Parker finally meets my gaze, one eyebrow cocked in a half-question.

“That’s the plan?” she asks. “Hope?”

“We work with what we’ve got.”

*

Marcus doesn’t have to knock on the door for me to know he’s there. Just as I don’t have to say, “go away” for him to know I don’t want company. But we go through the ritual anyway, for the sake of…ritual I suppose. Marcus closes the door slowly behind him.

I turned the lights off an hour ago when I couldn’t stand staring at the weird beige-orange color of the wall any longer. Curled into a ball on the couch feels safe. I’m a smaller target and, if I close my eyes, invisible.

Marcus tosses a pillow aside but keeps the lights off as he sits beside me.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

Another one of those silly rituals. He knows I don’t want to. We won’t talk about it, not really. We’ll talk about other things, anything else in fact. He’ll probe and observe my aura while I shield and mirror it. In the end we will both walk away with an imperfect understanding of the situation. That’s how the game works.

But the line gets stuck in my throat. Instead of a snotty response the only noise that escapes is a choking sound, and suddenly I’m crying, broken and off script. Marcus folds me in his arms, murmuring unintelligible words, possibly not even words at all but abstract noises invented by the first man when trying to sooth the first crying child.

As he holds me the crying and gasping spaces in my chest expand and fill with his soothing energy. In the midst of the hurricane Marcus is there, calm and quiet. The room is dark and warm. The pain ebbs as Marcus lifts the load from my heart, offering sleep as an alternative. Gratefully, I accept.

*

Rathe breathes evenly, hands tugging the blanket up to the edge of her nose as if hiding. In the dim light I watch her aura shifting as she descends into dreaming. I don’t recognize the two women in Rathe’s dream, but Rathe kisses each in turn before embracing Parker. Black smoke bellows forth from Rathe’s mouth and they disappear, replaced by a concrete maze in which she is pursued by a shadow. Rathe sprints, limbs aching, turning corners at random, too panicked to find the right way. The maze ends in a solid wall, trapped.

The first time it’s a gunshot to the gut. It rings out loudly, once, twice. I’m surprised to find Rathe frightened of something so weirdly mundane. The next time she’s caught I’m less sure what happened. It seems to be a black hole approaching, stretching everything infinitely before it all compresses into darkness, returning her to the start of the maze. The third time she begins to loop. In the trapped corridor the shadow becomes the Mayor who rises to a terrifying height, plucks Rathe from the ground and crushes her between gigantic hands. But instead of restarting the maze, Rathe returns to her cornered position. A squadron of soldiers face her, weapons aimed. She dies rocked by dozens of shots. The mind wipe comes next. Sudden and cleanly violent it’s over in seconds. She drools growing old alone. Then electricity. Parker, dull-eyed, approaching with an axe. Nearly a dozen horrible visions all with the same certain outcome.

I rouse Rathe enough to stop the nightmare, focusing on comforting thoughts, the senses of her home aura. Her energy ripples through sleep stages, finally descending into something neutral. Restful. Sleep is the only thing that can make her feel better now.

I feel the cost of absorbing her dark energy only after I leave the room. The fear lingers, trailing me as it trailed Parker, only longer and more persistent. Nervously I call Kathryn. I’m afraid to be alone.

“What’s wrong?” asks Kathryn before the door is even open enough for me to slip inside. She tucks her hands into her arm pits anxiously, thick fuzzy bathroom wrapped tightly around her body.

“I…”

The oppressive fear Rathe carries has only grown in my trip to Kathryn’s place, even as the source has become harder to place. I suppose I should feel good I’ve spared Rathe the agony, but I’m struggling under its weight. It circles relentlessly, raising subconscious thoughts I believed in the past. Thoughts I shouldn’t have anymore.

“Oh Marcus,” says Kathryn taking my hands. She kisses my cheek, her lips shockingly warm against my cool skin. Where she touches chases away the paralysis. Another kiss, lips finding lips this time. Kathryn inhales sharply and I’m pulled into her orbit, temporarily saved from my own thoughts. We stumble across the floor, hands grasping at clothing, achieving nothing. My hand slides up her thigh, displacing the lower portion of the robe. I need her warm skin to thaw my aura, I need the hope she carries so easily. I growl lightly into her throat as blood rushes away from my brain.

“You’re not wearing underwear.” Another unexpected surprise. I’m not sure if the omission is intentional. Her cheek warms against mine, blushing just out of sight.

“I’m glad you noticed,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry I…”

I should step away, give her some space. But I’m locked in place, body pressed against her, unable to hide my arousal.

“Don’t,” she says, stroking a loose hair from my eyes. Her own eyes sparkle with tentative excitement. “I love you Marcus.”

She pauses and I hold my breath. “I’m ready. For us. To…”

I’m lost in her beautiful dark eyes and deep maroon aura. How I resisted so long is a complete mystery. I scoop her off the ground, carrying her to the bedroom and depositing her lightly onto the center of the bed.

“Kathryn Li,” I say.

The only woman I’ve known I would love from first sight. A woman who manages to look unspeakably sexy while wearing a boxy winter bathrobe. The woman I hope to marry someday. Someday soon if I’m lucky.

“I love you with everything that I am.”


	21. Words

“Rathe!”

I snap my head up. Billy frowns.

“Please focus,” he says. “The debate is in less than twelve hours. I don’t need to remind you that it’s our last chance to convince people before the blackout period.”

He’s being more patient than usual. I wonder if Marcus told him about Parker. Or maybe Billy can just tell I’m tired. The past week has been hell. Endless events with members of the public, shaking hands, kissing babies. Half a million auras and energies surging through me, clamoring for attention and help. Sleeping ten hours a night hasn’t helped, even with Marcus there to ease the burden. I’m not sure how he’s handling it, and I haven’t had the energy to ask.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry, just focus,” says Billy gently. “This is the home stretch. You’re almost done.”

I shake my head, trying to clear the persistent fog. “I’m ready.”

An hour of focused drilling on talking points and facts passes quickly. I’m feeling surprisingly comfortable with this material. _Home stretch_. Billy’s words echo in my mind as I take the stairs two at a time up to my room. A promise. Rest on the horizon. Hopefully for good.

My phone buzzes. Parker. I ignore the buzzing. No message. That’s only the second time she’s tried in the past week. I don’t know if I should feel slighted or flattered. Marcus pops his head in.

“You got a minute?” he asks.

“Yeah, but literally only a minute. Debate tonight.”

“Right.”

Marcus closes the door behind him. I ignore him and continue changing, arguments and counters running though my head. I need some time to mediate before the debate. Who knows what kind of power the Mayor will pull. There will be a crowd but still plenty of opportunities for her to manipulate the process.

Marcus clears his throat and I glance up. Anxiety bubbles through his aura.

“I, uh. I’m not going to be able to make it tonight,” he says quickly. “I’m really sorry, I know it’s important.”

“That’s fine.” I’m honestly surprised he felt the need to say anything. The worried expression doesn’t move from his face. “Really,” I say. I offer him a smile. His gaze doesn’t move.

“You’ll be fine you know.”

“Yeah. I’m feeling really prepped.”

“No, that’s not what I…” Marcus shakes his head. “I meant after. You’re going to be fine.”

I offer another smile, this one more forced. “Yeah.”

That seems to satisfy him more for the worry fades form his face. With a breath he leaves me to my packed day. In all the preparation for the debate I’ve forgotten about the Resistance’s plan. I wonder why Billy would task Marcus with something the same night, even if he is one of their best leaders. It doesn’t make much sense… _unless they plan to make their move before the election_.

Of course. The Resistance will move in during the blackout period. Tonight’s debate is the last open window they’ll have. The thought makes me more anxious for some reason instead of less. But there’s little time to linger for Billy’s heavy step is on the stairs and I’m due for a quick meet and greet at the public library. Quickly I change, meeting Billy in front of my door, and together we head out.

*

The call to Rathe goes to voicemail prematurely. _Shit_. She rejected the call. I tuck further into the cramped corner of the warehouse, hoping the boxes and other miscellaneous items are offering some level of protection. Deep voices confer one aisle over.

“Call it in,” says one. I can just barely make them out through the junk behind me. The Mayor appears in a flash and involuntarily the two men straighten their posture. My breath catches in my throat. I never thought much of the Mayor one way or the other until our interaction in the precinct. Now all I see in her face is the ruthlessness with which she exploits any weakness in others. And my own failure. I try to suppress a sudden tickle in my throat.

“So she’s here,” says the Mayor.

The men nod.

“We’re certain of it. Ma’am.”

Idly she scans the row. One of the men collapses to the ground, groaning as he squeezes his hands against his ears. His partner steps away nervously as he continues moaning, the Mayor appears unbothered by the scene. Her eyes dart to and fro, settling directly into the space through which I’ve been watching. Trying not to breath too loudly or move too abruptly I slide away from the gap. The horrible moaning continues.

“Do you have to…?” the partner asks quietly. I can imagine the look her receives but to his credit he continues. “You got what you needed.”

The logical plea seems to work, for the moaning ceases into a quieter kind of blubbering. My heart beats loudly, obscuring any other sound. I wonder if the Mayor has moved or if she’s watching.

The pressure fills my own skull without warning. I fall against the box behind me and everything tumbles. In the blinding agony everything is light and shadows without form, save the face of the Mayor when she finally leans over.

“Oh pet,” she says. “I told you not to run.”

My skull cleaves open and everything is out there, plain as day for her to see. My attempt to train with Rathe, our awkward flirtation, and what I saw inside her mind fortress. The memory twists as she rotates it for better inspection.

“Well this is much better than I expected,” she says, tone pleased.

Desperately I try to recall the little Rathe covered. To build some kind of shelter for my own thoughts. It’s like trying to set up a tent in a hurricane. The Mayor’s mind batters my own relentlessly until I crawl under the flapping tarp and submit to the tempest.

Slowly the wind subsides and the rest of the warehouse returns to focus. The two men are nowhere to be seen but the Mayor remains, sitting beside me, her fingers caressing my cheek with unsettling concern. I twist my body but she holds me in place, a low growl in her voice.

“Stay,” she says.

Reluctantly I stop fighting, laying tensely across her lap trying to avoid eye contact. An odd warmth rises from my gut, spreading out in all directions through my chest, across the shoulder, down the arm to my fingertips. I tremble, warm from head to toe, strangely relaxed as I lay here.

“Are you comfortable?” ask the Mayor.

I nod, eyes blinking rapidly. I want to close them. It’s so nice here. I could just…drift off to sleep.

“It’s ok, you know.” Her voice is soft and kind, the low growl replaced with something else. A cadence that soothes with its predictability, familiarity.

“I shouldn’t,” I say. The words seem to evaporate on my lips. Heavy eyelids close against the fluorescent light overhead. Fingers continue to stroke the edge of my hairline. The gentle movement heals the fractures in my mind, cleans the pain away until I’m shiny and new. Reborn. I feel rejuvenated, as if I’ve slept for years and I’m ready to take on the world. As if everything I hate about myself and my life has been replaced.

I smile into the kindly face above.

“Is that better?” she asks.

“Yes.” It’s more than relief. I’m deeply, eternally grateful.

She stands, extending a hand and I take it, rising with her. I don’t know why I hid earlier. A silly argument, an overreaction on my part. I hope she can forgive me. The guilt ties my stomach in knots.

“Can you…?”

“Shh,” she says, placing a finger to my lips. A nameless but comforting aroma fills my senses. “It’s all in the past now.”

She smooths her shirt and jacket, brushing bits of dust.

“Now, let’s get moving. Mommy’s got the debate to night and I want my little girl right there in the front row.”

*

The backstage of the auditorium buzzes with activity. People flutter around me, dabbing makeup, adjusting hair, clothes, microphone. Still others holler over the rustling bodies instructions, last minute talking points, current events. Yet another cohort zip about setting up the physical space with podiums, audience mics, and posters. The seriousness with which everyone rushes contrasts with the sense I feel of being back in middle school, about to perform in the mandatory school musical.

I swallow the urge to laugh, catching Billy’s eye.

“Where’s the Mayor?”

I don’t actually care, but in all the hubbub I’m surprised I have yet to see her or her cronies. Billy points across the stage.

“We get stage left, they’re on stage right,” he explains. “It keeps things easier.”

“Ah.”

I crane my neck around the young woman attempting to put something on my eye. I can’t see much across the dim space except for a similar level of activity. In the audience, seats are beginning to fill. I spot several employees and regulars from Fancy.

“Alright,” says Billy, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to go get a seat.” He swallows hard as his aura expands. Pride. I blink back my surprise. Not the reaction I expected.

“You’ll be great,” he says gruffly.

Another pat on the shoulder and he’s gone. As if by some invisible signal the others peel off quickly until I’m alone, fidgeting nervously.

“Rathe Adler I presume?”

I jump at the sound. An overdone man of middle age wearing much too bright a suit grins.

“Marty McDougall,” he says extending a hand. “I’m your moderator.” His hand feels of the bizarre heat of tanning beds, garish red, hard-boiled eggs, and the afterimage of flashing lights. He leans in conspiratorially.

“Between you and me, I’m really rooting for you,” he says.

“Thanks…”

Marty thumbs up, spinning and snapping his lapels to smooth the jacket. With a flourish he strides onto the small auditorium stage like an opera star, arms open awaiting the bouquet of flowers.

Mild applause follows his entrance which he accepts eagerly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marty booms into the handheld microphone. “Your candidates for Mayor! Here tonight to speak on stage together for the first and only time before you make your important decision.”

Oh good grief. Marty continues winding up the crowd. The longer he drags it out the more nervous I become. Across the stage I spot the Mayor facing me from her side, also impatiently waiting to get started. Her eyes flick back to me.

_She’s younger. Much younger. Back before anyone called her “the Mayor” and she was just Samantha. “Just” being the operative word as there was nothing remarkable about this young woman. A Sapiens and nothing more. No possibility of being more her parents said when they took her in for chrysalis. Yet it was expected and so she went through the motions, entered the fey wild, and returned with a token, a small piece of gray stone. She shrugged when they asked what she saw._

_“Nothing.”_

_Nothing could be further from the truth. Samantha grew old and died in the fey wild, forever trying to climb the great stone cliff that impeded her progress to the end of the road. She hadn’t understood then. It took years to understand what the rock face meant when it said only from her blood could she unlock the potential within. It wasn’t her blood per se but…_

“…I give you, your challenger, Rathe Adler!”

Marty flings out his arm and I’m stumbling forward into the light. I can’t see a damn thing with the spotlight but I fight the urge to shield my eyes and instead wave. One arm at first but then raising both, inspired by Marty’s sense of largesse and the enthusiastic cheers of my Fancy family.

“And your incumbent, Mayor Samantha Townsend!”

The Mayor steps out with considerably more poise, managing a small smile and nods for the crowd. I rub my damp palms against the top of my podium. The light still spots my eyes but I can at least make out shapes now.

“We open the floor first to the challenger, Rathe Adler to make her statement.”

Now or never.

I step from behind the podium as Marty, somewhat reluctantly, yields the stage.

For a moment I simply soak up the energy of the crowd. There’s genuine excitement, nerves, fear, thrill, confusion, joy, and everything in between. From this vantage point I feel I have the space to take it in without becoming overwhelmed. It’s intoxicating.

“You all know who I am.” The line earns some chuckles. “Or at least you think you do. The truth is, I’m all of that. I’m a reflection of you, and you. I’m a reflection of this city.”

The crowd is silent, waiting, inhaling and exhaling like a single giant beast.

 “Some people will tell you I’m too young, too uneducated to handle this. Those people don’t know me very well. They haven’t met my friends, the remarkable people of this town that took care of me when I woke.”

“Some people will tell you that I was born into this. That my family are natural leaders, gifted with the skill to guide this city. Those people, usually, also haven’t met me. For while my parents may have been born to this, anyone who knows me, knows this does not come naturally.”

The crowd settles, swaying easily to the rhythm of my words.

“I’ve had to work to get where I am today. Just as each and every one of you had to. I’ve been given advantages certainly, but I firmly believe that we make our own destiny.”

The red light in the back of the auditorium begins to blink, signaling less than sixty seconds remaining on my time. Billy must be apoplectic, I’ve yet to touch on his talking points.

“I’m talking about potential,” I continue. My voice echoes slightly in the back corners. “Human potential, whether it be Leporem, Neander, Dryadalis, or Sapiens. We all have potential to do remarkable things. I’m talking about collective potential; what happens when we join forces with our varied skills, all that we can achieve together.”

The blinking light stops, holding steady at red.

“I believe this city and its people can be more, that they deserve more. Thank you.”

I step back to the podium just as the red light flips off. Perfect timing. The Mayor takes up position in the front of the stage for her opening. I maintain a neutral expression as I think back to the vision of her as a young woman. It explains the stone figures in her office being capable of containing mystical abilities. But it doesn’t explain how she figured it out. _Only from her blood…_

“…the children of Port City deserve safety.” The Mayor’s voice intrudes upon my reflection. The light blinks red. She’s wrapping up.

“…children…”

That word again. The Mayor is really leaning hard into parental fear. That’s a new tactic. She smiles as she concludes. Marty quickly replaces her at center stage.

“And now, onto our first topic for discussion,” Marty says dramatically. “The floor is open to Mayor Townsend first. Your topic is one on which our candidates have great disagreement: chrysalis.”

“I think we all want to live in an egalitarian society, do we not?” asks the Mayor. “The entire theory of chrysalis runs directly counter to that principle. It maintains the idea that some have gifts others cannot. That some are meant for something and others cannot. I know my parents felt the sting of completing the ritual and being the same. It tears us apart, and I would do everything possible to protect our children from the sting of denial, a sense that some are preordained and others are not.”

Interesting. Not quite a lie, but a key omission.

“Mayor Townsend have you completed chrysalis?” I ask. Some in the crowd gasp. It’s probably a horrendously rude question but it’s too late now to take back, nor do I particularly want to. Her response doesn’t matter anyway.

“I ask, only because it seems you are making a number of assumptions regarding the process,” I continue. “My own mother completed the ritual and held the experience in high regard, as do virtually all _Sapiens_. Chrysalis reveals hidden abilities as well. Surely you’d be aware of that if you had undergone the process which you so willingly disparage.”

My words have the intended effect as the Mayor’s face contorts with controlled anger.

“I wonder what you saw in your chrysalis to make you hate it so,” I add.

The room falls so silent I hear the tinny feedback of Marty’s microphone. A shoe scuffs towards the back of the auditorium.

“You know what your problem is?” asks the Mayor.

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re a brat. You’re a child that’s always been treated differently. Being in a coma for ten years has only helped with the special treatment I imagine.”

“Well I’m sorry my parents died in a terrible accident to which I lost ten years of my life,” I reply lightly. “That must be hard for you to deal with.”

“While you laid in a hospital bed, I was working! I was learning how to make a difference! I made this city safe from those with powers!”

“You stopped people from being who they are. You deliberately kept everyone – not just one race – from reaching their potential.”

“People don’t want that,” the Mayor retorts. “Ask anyone. It’s too much pressure. Who am I to force it? You forget, which I’ll allow seeing as you were brain dead at the time, but the issue was put to a vote. The people voted against chrysalis. It’s objectively too dangerous. No one can control these powered people.”

“Not when it’s just one or two,” I say. “That’s the point. If everyone reaches their potential, we maintain balance. People will always be good and bad, we’re all a mix. But you convinced people they should be scared of their ability, not trust themselves. You perverted the balance, and worst of all…”

Red flushes into the Mayor’s face. Marty watches the exchange with wide eyes, white knuckles gripping his microphone tightly. The rest of the audience tips forward. I hear Billy’s voice in my head. If I call her out now I’ll just sound paranoid.

“…all those children you talk about,” I say, course correcting. “You aren’t giving them a chance.”

“Maybe you should ask my daughter that,” the Mayor suggests. “Marty?”

Marty shrugs helplessly as the Mayor gestures to someone in the audience. A shadow stands in the second row, sliding past people and moving into the aisle and up the steps on the side of the stage. My heart beats faster as the shadow emerges.

Parker, hair down and slightly wavy, a touch of makeup and a simple flattering black dress approaches the Mayor with a smile and open arms. They embrace and Parker kisses her on the cheek to open applause from portions of the crowd. Parker’s eyes harden slightly as she faces me.

It’s undeniably Parker. I smell the mustard and grassy aura, feel the hard-crusted edges. But there is zero recognition in her eyes. My chest stabs painfully, the Mayor’s play for parental support earlier now made clear.

“My daughter works for the Port City Police Department, and I’d like her to weigh in on my chrysalis position,” says the Mayor, hand on Parker’s shoulder.

Parker smiles, her usually abrupt nature smoothed over by whatever hold the mayor has. She’s elegant, beautiful in her dress.

“I know from firsthand experience,” Parker begins, voice clear and strong, “the dangers of chrysalis. More than once in recent months I’ve had to respond to calls instigated by people trying to bring the process back. Murders, suicides, theft to name just a few. If it were safe, it would lead to more crime.”

The crowd murmurs agreement. Her words scarcely register, I hear only Parker’s tone full of disgust, eyes that refuse direct contact with my gaze. I reach for her, seeking the thread we share. My psyche extends through a vacuum, finding nothing. Marty, regaining some of his swagger, raises an eyebrow as he looks from Parker to me.

“Ms. Adler,” he says. “Bold words from Mayor Townsend’s daughter. How do you respond?”

As I open my mouth a tiny gesture catches my eye. The Mayor holds something in her hand. A cylindrical purple crystal. Parker’s totem. In it I see Parker’s spirit, her memories trapped in the crystal as the Mayor’s large hand squeezes. The threat is clear. I could lose her forever. Crushing that crystal with Parker’s essence would be akin to destroying her soul.

I shake my head.

“I will cede my response time to Mayor Townsend,” I say.

*

“Where is everyone?” Gordy asks. He hops up and down shaking his legs to stay warm. Kathryn leans into me for the same reason. I wrap my arm around her small frame, taking in the scent of rosemary in her hair.

“At the debate. Is everything set here?”

Gordy rolls his eyes. “So little faith.” He flips his backpack around to the front, expertly maneuvering the laptop out and open with one hand.

“Is this going to work?” asks Kathryn anxiously.

“Oh not you too,” says Gordy. “Maybe I should doubt your ability to do…whatever it is you plan to do once we get inside.”

“Nah,” I say.

Gordy grunts, half-gloved fingers typing rapidly. He glances up quickly.

“Why is it taking so long?”

“I have to disable the cameras first. Don’t worry, this door will be a breeze to open.” He snaps the laptop shut with a satisfied air, leaning into the panel by the door. Gently he pries away the cover, studying the crisscrossing wires for a second before switching two of them. With a flourish he opens the door.

I feel Kathryn lean forward in awe. I’m impressed as well.

“Nice work,” I say. I peel off my jacket, draping it over Kathryn as I give her a kiss. “You know what to do?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m the lookout. It’s not exactly a difficult job.”

“Phone ready?”

In response she pulls out her cell, showing my number already typed in.

“One touch and you’ll know,” she says. “Now stop worrying about me. You’re the one that could get in real trouble here.”

I kiss her once more for good luck. Inside I follow Gordy through the silent halls. I’ve been here at least half a dozen times on school field trips, but not for many, many years. The building hasn’t changed at all so I navigate the hallways with the surreal ease of a dream. Gordy easily circumvents the security in place for the executive wing and the Mayor’s suite. We aren’t tripped up until the door to the Mayor’s private office, which boasts a deadbolt in place of the electronic keypads. Minutes tick by as Gordy fiddles with the outside latch.

“We don’t have all night,” I whisper.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” retorts Gordy. “I figure thirty minutes before someone notices the video feeds are looping.” He brushes his forehead with the back of his hand, bringing it away damp with sweat.

I bite back a response. I need him to work quickly and get out safe. Gordy bites the corner of his lip in concentration. The building creaks and groans. I think I hear echoes of footsteps but it’s just my own heartbeat. I check my phone. Nothing from Kathryn. Something snaps inside the door and Gordy exhales sharply. The heavy wood door silently opens.

“Gods, you’re amazing Gordy.”

The Dryadalis breathes heavily, his eyes wide with fear, not even acknowledging the compliment.

“Marc what are you going to do?”

“It’s not important. What matters is that you get out, and get Kathryn out,” I say. “Trust me.”

Gordy looks back through the dark building, stepping away slowly.

“Go,” I urge. “Tell Kathryn I’ve thought this through. And that I love her.”

“I’ll make sure she’s ok,” Gordy says. He vanishes into the dark hall and I’m alone in the Mayor’s office.

The stone figures rest on the edge of the desk just as Rathe described. They emit no aura from a distance but vibrate with intensity upon touch. I wait before touching them to make sure Gordy has escaped the building and taken Kathryn away from here.

The stone seems to give way against my fingers. Every point of energy in the universe shines with a brilliant light, connected to every other point in a complex kaleidoscopic pattern. Every wish and skill, emotion and talent right there for the taking. I’m overwhelmed by the possibilities presented. I can be anything.

The potential energy begs for release, it wants to come out. But before I can draw forth what’s been contained in the stone my arms are roughly grabbed and locked in place behind my back.

The Mayor strides forward, three police officers flanking her as well as Parker in a sleek black mini-dress that renders her almost unrecognizable.

“Marc Ferrari,” says Parker. “Also known as Marcus Adler. I am placing you under arrest for trespass, theft, and treason against the government. Do you have anything to say?”


	22. Home

I can’t bring myself to raise my head after the debate. Billy isn’t even mad. I can feel him lingering just outside my personal space, wondering. I’m not sure I can explain myself. The hold the Mayor has on Parker… The clenching in my gut when I realized I could lose her.

Somewhere in this whole stupid messy situation I got used to her. Sure we flirt, but I did that to make her uncomfortable, get under her skin. In the process she got under mine. I can smell her intoxicating aura, wisps of mustard yellow and muddy green. Solid. The ground vanishing beneath my feet without it.

The crush of energy around me retreats suddenly, replaced by the scent of old fleece blankets tucked away in the basement, unwashed a little too long. I lean my head against Gordy, heaving dry tears. He wraps his long arms around me and I’m weightless, floating in the air. The crowd parts as he carries me from the auditorium to his beat-up car, illegally parked out in the back alley. I sump in the passenger seat as Gordy soundlessly slips behind the wheel. He doesn’t move.

“Marc–” Gordy says.

“Parker–” I begin.

We both stop.

“You first,” he says, eyes fixed forward through the windshield.

“Parker’s under some kind of control by the Mayor. She doesn’t remember me.” My voice cracks.

I try to summon the memory of meeting Parker for the first time. Her disbelief, arrogance, unwillingness to help. Even now on a good day I would struggle to call her a nice person. But she’s driven. She has conviction. She tries even when no one is watching, even when no one cares. Endangers herself willingly. That’s why I fell for her, in spite of everything.

Gordy sighs. I’d almost forgotten him.

“You wanted to say something?” I ask.

“Just…” Gordy seems uncomfortable. His large eyes gaze from side to side of the alley in front of us. “Marc broke into City Hall tonight.”

The silence sits heavy as I think about what that probably means.

“Why?”

Gordy shrugs. “Why did Parker get involved in Scrimner? Why do we do anything?” An unusual edge of frustration lines his voice.

“What do you mean?”

He throws his hands up in the air. His usually centered energy pulsates out and in.

“All of you! You’re all just like the damn Mayor, thinking there is one way the story can go. Parker has to go undercover, Marc has to break in, and you…” His voice trails off. “I don’t even know.”

“Have to die,” I say.

“What?”

“I’ve seen it,” I say. Gordy’s eyes widen. Then he snorts.

“Oh good _grief_ ,” he says. “And here I thought Marc was a shoo-in for the drama queen award.”

“It’s happened before,” I say, a little angry. Who is he to know anything about my future?

“Obviously. That’s why you assume it’s the way it has to happen again.” He waves his hands again. “Anyone ever tell you – all of you by the way – that you have a hero complex? Because you do. This whole mess? It’s because the three of you think you have to do it all alone. I’m right here!! You’ve got Kathryn! Billy! The whole freaking Resistance! You know why they keep going off doing their own thing? Because you haven’t told anyone outside a few of us that you have a better plan!”

I blink. Before my eyes Gordy shifts into something familiar. He’s not the oft-stoned, laconic Dryadalis I met outside the hospital months ago but a young man determined to make a difference. The gap between Marcus Gibson and goofy kid I know suddenly seems quite small.

“You’re right,” I say.

Gordy’s long lashes bat in surprise but his face remains stern.

“Gordy, will you help me,” I say. “I don’t know what to do.”

He turns the key in the ignition.

“We start where we always do.” He looks at me, his usual good mood already returning. The serious expression breaks into a grin. “Research.”

*

“You know what never sat quite right with me?” In between his words bits of popcorn spill out of Gordy’s mouth between his fingers. The other hand stretches impossibly across the laptop keyboard, typing away.

“Food in moderation?”

Gordy shakes his head. “Why did Parker care so much about Scrimner?”

“She worked the case with my parents,” I say.

“Yeah, but why would she care that much to keep tracking them down after so many years?” asks Gordy. “I mean, no offense, you’re swell and you two definitely have a thing going on –”

“We don’t have a thing,” I interrupt.

“You have a thing, and everyone knows it,” Gordy retorts. “But you were strangers then. Strangers with one thing in common.”

He wipes his hand and flips the screen over for me. In the photo Parker is just a year older than I was but appears no less devastated, crouched on the edge of the rubble, her fingers clawing at the cracked pavement. The headline reads _Collapsed Home Kills 2_. I skim the article quickly. It’s dated only days after the death of my parents.

“Do you think it was intentional?” asks Gordy. “Killing the parents of the cop charged with investigating the Adler crash?”

I shake my head. Family day. Nights drinking together. Parker never said a word about her family. I never asked.

“It was an accident,” I say. A mistake that the Mayor found a way to turn into opportunity. A repressed memory that could be more easily replaced with something positive. But back then it seems the Mayor had but a few abilities at her disposable.

“Are there other events like this?” I ask. “Crushing type deaths labeled as accidents? Non- _Sapiens_ victims?”

A few clicks.

“Every couple days,” Gordy says. “Lasting about three weeks. The city later issued a statement about latent seismic activity that may have impacted poorly made structures.”

I bet they did. Three weeks in the Mayor would have had a large selection of abilities from which to choose. _From blood_. Of course. It’s so blindingly obvious now. I don’t know why I wanted to convince myself that my parents were the only target.

 _Nope. Just the first_.

Wait. They couldn’t be first. The Mayor never acquired an ability through chrysalis. She must have taken it. The first would go even further back than the Adlers or the Parkers. It would be personal, unplanned. Spur of the moment, fueled by jealousy and the rage at the core of the Mayor’s aura.

“Gordy, I need you to look up unusual deaths prior to the accident. Anything in the previous several years.”

“More unexplained crushing or collapses?”

“No,” I say. “This will be a murder. Probably messy.”

I flip through the records as Gordy pulls them. One photo catches my eye. Her hair is straight, not frizzy. Eyes a dark, warm brown. Leah Beckstein. It’s the nose that gives it away. The slight hook it has about halfway down leaving the tip just slightly lopsided.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Leah Beckstein,” Gordy replies.

“No, I mean _who_ is she? Where did she come from? How did she die? That kind of thing.”

“Right. Um, well _Sapiens_. She was seventeen at the time of her death. Pretty gruesome. Father came home from work and found her. Police believe robbery and she surprised them. House smashed up but nothing taken. That part was flagged as unusual. Parents split shortly afterwards, Dean and Samantha.”

“Where are they now?”

“Looks like Dean moved to Bluff. Works in construction out there. Died a few years ago in an accident.” Gordy pauses. “I could ask my dad if he knew him.”

“Not yet. I want to keep this low profile. What about the mom?”

Gordy’s eyebrows bunch together. “I’m not sure,” he says finally.

“Not sure? That’s a first.”

“Well she kinda goes dark. At least…” The furrows melt away, replaced by his usual easy confidence. “Of course.”

“Of course what?”

“She went back to her maiden name.” He looks up with a grin. “You’ll never believe it.”

“Townsend.”

“Right-o.”

Ground zero. The Mayor’s own blood.

*

I glance at Parker repeatedly as the cops escort me out of the building and into the waiting car. This isn’t the Parker I know. I mean it’s her, but she’s been invaded by another energy. We approach the car. A personal car I note, not a police vehicle. Parker pretends to not notice my continued attention but I can see it wearing on her patience.

“Can I help you, Mr. Adler?” she asks, spinning to face me. The energy looks and feels like her, but the movement and pattern is all wrong. I wonder if Rathe knows.

“I get a phone call, right?” Parker’s expression wavers into uncertainty. I’m acting as if this is a standard arrest when it’s clearly not. That seems to throw her.

“Yes,” she says. “One phone call.”

She reaches into her pocket, handing me a cell.

“At the station is fine,” I say.

“You won’t be going to the station. One call, right now, or nothing.”

I take the phone and dial the number I know by heart. It rings four times before going to voicemail.

“What’s the time?” I ask as the message plays. Parker rolls her eyes.

“Eleven-oh-four.”

“Thanks.” The phone beeps. “Hey, it’s five after eleven.  Marc, in case you couldn’t tell. You’re probably wondering why I’m calling. I know I’m behind on the rent today. The thing is… well, a line is just between two P’s ya know? I’m over here, you’re there…there’s no place in the world that is too far to get clear of everything. I finally get it. I’ve got the stones to do it now. I won’t be returning that love seat after all. If you get the chance, tell Kat.”

Parker watches me warily, glancing at the number on the screen before putting the phone back in her pocket.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“The Mayor coming?”

“Does it matter?” Parker retorts as she roughly ducks my head beneath the roof of the car.

“The more the merrier,” I say with a smirk. Parker fumes. I can see why my sister gets such a kick out of tormenting her. Although I have to say I prefer the other Parker that gives as good as she gets.

“I think she will want to have a few words with you,” says Parker.

Outstanding. I wave out the window at the two cops.

“We’re ready,” Parker says to the driver.

With a quiet rumble of the engine, we pull away.

*

Kathryn plays the message, her face serious. Marcus’s voice sounds all wrong coming from the tinny speaker of the disposable phone. As if the poor quality contributes to the halting, unsure tone of his message. Distress call, as Kathryn put it.

“How did you get this?” I ask.

“Marcus gave it to me. I was supposed to use it to alert him if anyone approached while he was in city hall. But apparently, he had other plans,” Kathryn adds, with a particularly withering expression for Gordy.

“Hey, I didn’t know either,” he says.

“Yet you were fine to let him move ahead with his half-baked plan?”

Gordy shrugs helplessly. Kathryn replays the message.

“It sounds like nonsense,” Kathryn says with a frown.

“Maybe he hit his head,” suggests Gordy.

I don’t catch it until the recording plays a third time.

_It’s five after eleven…_

“It’s a code,” I say. I grab a loose sheet of paper and begin scribbling the words. Kathryn and Gordy circle around.

“Five after eleven,” I explain. “Eleven words in is the start. Every fifth word from there. We used this code as kids.”

A distant, borrowed memory floats up from my subconscious. Using our goofy cant to pass messages under the watchful eyes of our parents, who almost certainly overheard the code’s creation. A way to pass the time on long road trips. I can’t believe Marcus found a way to use it again. I step back and read what’s left.

_I’m behind the line. P’s here. Place is clear. Get stones. I love you Kat._

“He wanted to get caught,” says Gordy.

“I’m guessing P means Parker,” adds Kathryn with a quick look at me. “So we know they’re together.” I say nothing, struck instead by his single command in the message.

_Get stones._

The laugh burbles up unexpectedly. Gordy – right as always. My brother, like me, prepared to do the stupid thing, ready to die for the chance to be a hero, having no idea what it really means. Not knowing that picking up the pieces is far more difficult and painful than leaving the world could ever be. That real heroes are the ones that stick around, that do everything to continue to protect the ones they love not just from today’s threat, but the one after that and after that.

“I have to get him out,” I say.

“No.” The assertive tone of Kathryn’s usually demure voice stops me in place. She takes a breath, deep maroon and the slightly sweet smell of pastries swirling and coalescing into something resembling resolve. A weapon edged with poison, small but deadly, capable of inflicting wounds with the lightest of pressure.

“I’m going to get him out,” Kathryn says. “You’re going to the Mayor’s office. There’s something he needs you to finish and I have a hunch that only you can finish it.”

“That’s absurd.”

Kathryn shakes her head, cheeks pinking.

“I, um. I may have run some tests at one point.”

I cross my arms.

“Your blood carries something special. A factor that I believe is the result of you crossing the multiverse. I think it’s how you are able to tap into the…other Rathe’s ability and memories. It’s why you could absorb the Mayor’s stored potential.”

Kathryn’s eyes shine. “You can release it,” she says.

Potential energy, years’ worth, that the Mayor has encased within her stone vessels. All that energy rushing out in one blast…

“Even if I could,” I say, “it would obliterate Port City and everyone in it. No way.”

“Not if you funnel it through you. You have to try. Marcus did all this because he believed it was the only way to make things right.”

Well, Marcus is an idiot, I want to say. I rub my eyes. Who am I to judge? I’ve done the same kind of grand gesture twice now.

 _And look where it got you_.

“Alright,” I say.

“What about me?” asks Gordy.

“We’re both gonna need your assistance. How do you feel about mission control?”

Gordy rubs his hands together. “Two ladies at once? I’m all over it,” he drawls. Kathryn looks askance. “Respectfully,” Gordy adds quickly. “All over it helpfully. Helping. Not sexual. Never. With you… Not that I wouldn’t, I just…” His voice fades.

Kathryn giggles, embracing him tightly. “We get it, Gordy.” She separates and looks at him sternly. “Now start tracking Marcus’s phone so I can give him the talking-to he so clearly needs.”

“With pleasure,” says Gordy. “And, uh. We should probably junk this phone too. Since we don’t want them tracking it back to us.”

While Gordy begins hacking away at his keyboard, I pull Kathryn aside. Her aura yields uncertainly, fading in color, appearing to dissipate.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly. “Gordy can head out. You can stay here and run communications.”

Kathryn shakes her head.

“If I can’t get myself to leave for the man I…” Her eyes brim with tears but she refuses to let even one fall, blinking relentlessly until they retreat. “The man I love, then…”

“He will love you no matter what,” I say gently. I’ve seen the way my brother stares at her.

“But I won’t,” she says. “I hate this part of myself. It will always be there a little bit, I’ve made my peace with that. But if I let it control me…”

Weirdly, I get it. The monster in me rears its head often, even if it’s less obvious than Kathryn’s demon. It’s there on my bad days daring me to engage in more and more dangerous activities. It’s there on the dark days, the lonely days. Each time I think it’s defeated it emerges again, from yet another cave.

Kathryn sniffs softly. “Hug the monster,” she says.

“What?”

“It’s something my father used to tell me. That if you have to live with it, you might as well hold it tight. That things are rarely as scary as we believe.”

I like that.

“Is it cheating if I help you?”

Kathryn licks her lips in thought, finally shaking her head. I reach forward and recall the greatest confidence I’ve ever felt in my life. The memory warms me down to the toes. I draw together the strings of energy, pulling them into a tight ball that burns as hot as the sun. I feel a cooling breeze as I pass the energy on to Kathryn. Her aura radiates the glow, lightening the maroon, smoothing the inconsistencies, sweeting the flavor.

“Go save our guy,” I say.

*

I lose track of time as the car drives through the dark streets. We’re well out of town. The brightly lit streets have changed into an unlit two-lane road with no discernable speed limit. Parker fidgets in the next seat over, pressing her hand to her head.

“Parker?” I ask, reaching to touch her shoulder. “Are you ok?”

She starts away, momentarily looking like the Parker I know. The one in love with my sister. Her aura bends and twists painfully as she clutches her head again.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she says. She tries to come off threatening but it sounds more pathetic. Whatever is going on is beyond my skill but I know one trick that may work.

I close my eyes and concentrate, reaching for Parker. Her defenses are too battered fighting the intruding energy to notice my approach. I hear a stifled yawn. A few minutes, later another one. A minute after that her fidgeting stops.

Parker’s head leans against the seatbelt. Her eyes flutter open and closed, unseeing. Impatiently I wait for her to settle into a dream cycle. The driver continues down the road, but we could stop at any moment. For all I know Parker has been instructed to take me out once we’re a certain distance away.

The dream finally begins, but like her aura it’s fractured, split between consciousnesses. Carefully, I step inside.

The walls of the maze extend high to the sky which spins with greenish-grey clouds. Parker dashes, while another one remains frozen to the spot. The disorienting movement threatens to make me sick.

“Parker, do you know me?”

Parker turns, her eyes the same wild green-grey as the stormy sky above. She shakes her head.

“Marcus.”

“Yeah,” I say. Gods, her dreamscape is confusing. The maze inverts sharply, the walls dropping to reveal the pattern but leaving bottomless chasms in their wake. My stomach heaves.

“Show me what happened,” I say, hoping I sound more authoritative than I feel.

Parker looks about wildly and without warning, jumps into the hole in the ground. The earth trembles. I get the sensation that the chasms aren’t sticking around. The storm will strike and I’ll be torn from the dream. Gritting my teeth, I dive into the gash after her.

We land softly on a pile of pillows. Parker giggles as my sister nestles her nose into Parker’s neck.

“Oh please, not this again,” I mutter. Parker doesn’t seem to hear.

“Are you sure?” asks Rathe. She glances between Parker’s eyes and lips. “You can forgive me?”

“Rathe Adler,” says Parker, stroking her face. “You are, without a doubt, the most screwed up human –”

“Half-human,” Rathe interrupts. Parker laughs.

“Half-human,” she corrects, “that I have ever fallen in love with.” Rathe grins.

“So just the one then?”

“The only one,” whispers Parker, leaning in for a kiss.

“It never happened.” I jump at Parker’s voice right by my ear. The scene pauses, Rathe and Parker inches apart.

“What did you see?” I ask. Parker’s face is dark with dirt stains, her clothes worn. “When you entered Rathe’s mind? What was so awful?”

“I saw everything,” she says without emotion. “I saw the ones she killed, every person she’s manipulated. The ones she loved before…” Her voice trails off. “It’s why she wants to leave us.”

“Leave us?”

“You already know.” Parker faces me matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you saw her dream just as you’re in mine now. That’s why this doesn’t matter. None of it does.”

“No, that’s not real. That’s…everyone feels that way sometimes.”

Parker shrugs. “Maybe. But not all the time. So well done little brother. You’re going to make your sister’s wish come true today. We’ll see if third time is the charm.”

The dream expels me violently, car door open, hands on my arms dragging me out. Parker appears dazed in the opposite seat, the Mayor looking in grimly.

“Sweet dreams?” the Mayor asks.

“You should let Parker go,” I say. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Au contraire,” responds the Mayor, idly she pulls a purple crystal from her pocket, turning it as if inspecting. “Your sister has a bad habit of dying for love. That makes her essential. At least for now.”

*

Everything feels extra quiet around City Hall. Not just middle-of-the-night quiet but intentionally quiet, like the world is playing hide and seek, holding its breath while I listen for clues. It’s unnerving to feel so alone, as if even the drunks stayed close to home tonight.

“Hey Gordy, I’m almost there,” I say into the comm. Not quite true but I could use a friendly voice to distract me.

“Yeah, uh…” He breathes heavily. Apparently coordinating two of us is a bit more than he can comfortably manage. “The, uh, front door should be open. Just me let me know if it’s not.”

He cuts off abruptly and I’m left alone in the heavy silence. In the early morning darkness City Hall seems less imposing. Bricks and mortar masquerading as something more. But while it sleeps, just another building.

It’s too easy. The front door opens on my first try. Footsteps echo through the empty halls until I reach the carpeted suite of the Mayor. That door too opens upon touch.

The lobby of the Mayor’s office shows signs of a light struggle. A couple items from the reception desk knocked over, the desk somewhat askew.

The Mayor’s inner sanctum calls, the heavy door slightly ajar. The room is actually brighter than the interior hallways thanks to the full window. The stone figures, lined up one by one, cast long moon shadows off the desk. I feel the blood pulse through my body. This is it.

I look around at the Mayor’s impersonal office. Not here. Unceremoniously I collect the stones, giving the beautiful oak door a good kick on the way out.

*

The Mayor’s cronies drag me from the car and into the shack. There, I’m chained to the wall and beginning to realize the huge leap of faith I’ve taken.

“Now what?” I ask.

The Mayor opens her mouth, but words are cut off by sound of screeching outside. Parker spins on her heels immediately headed for the door. Muffled voices, a cry, the sound of something heavy falling on the pavement. Long silence. Finally gravel crunches outside.

“Lost tourists,” Parker says as she enters. She appears a bit shaken but pulls it together quickly. “I took care of it.” The Mayor nods.

“Good. Get rid of the car too.”

Parker nods sharply. As she turns, her eye catches mine. She surges over to me, slamming my cuffed wrists against the wall. Something hard edged and metallic presses against my palm.

“What’s your problem?” she snarls. A sturdy fist knocks the wind from my lungs with a sharp hook. I buckle over instinctively, choking for air and concentrating on keeping a hold on whatever she slipped me.

Parker steps back, brushing her pants.

“Are you finished?” ask the Mayor with mild amusement. Parker swallows hard, leaving the cabin door swinging behind.

The Mayor paces uncertainly about the room. Bent over I’m able to partially obscure my observation. A slim key. It has to be for the cuffs. But why the change when the Mayor is in close proximity? The aura floats in, warming me even as it fills me with ice cold dread. Why the hell is Kathryn here?

Another familiar aura circles the shanty behind me. And Gordy? This couldn’t get any worse. I keep my face as neutral as possible but the Mayor can sense something’s up too. She strides to the door, flinging it open. Parker’s arm slings forward making contact with the Mayor’s nose with a solid crack. The Mayor flinches backwards and it’s enough time for me to release the cuffs and jump out of the way.

Parker presses forward with a roar, pushing the Mayor into the wall. She snaps the open cuff around one wrist. The Mayor’s free hand snakes into her pocket, revealing the purple crystal. Parker freezes.

“Whatever they did will wear off,” the Mayor says, her voice raspy from the action. “When that happens, I just need to crush this and you’ll never remember who you were.”

Kathryn stands in the doorway, syringe in hand. Parker struggles to maintain control, watching her crystal reflecting the low light of the cabin as if hypnotized.

“Give it to me,” Parker says. The Mayor pulls the cuffs from the wall with a casual tug. The chain dangles from her right wrist.

“I don’t think so. And your friend will run out of suppressant long before I run out of tricks.”

More voices yell outside, approaching. A tall Dryadalis, bearing a striking resemblance to a beefy Gordy, enters. Behind him dozens of others, some Dryadalis, some Neander, others Sapiens or maybe Leporem. They crowd into the small hut until all that remains is a small semicircle space in front of the Mayor.

The energy of the room throngs with power of all kinds. These people know themselves, in a way the Mayor never has. She seems so small and lost, even as she holds the ability to take on twice the power of the rest of us combined.

“It doesn’t bother me in the least to kill you all,” she says. “Here’s an oldie but goodie.” Her eyes flash and a crushing pressure fills my chest. Kathryn clutches my shoulder. That’s when the world goes black and explodes into a million silver stars.

There’s a moment, fraction of a moment really, where I’m floating and everything makes perfect sense. I see the past and future connected in infinite cycle. I feel the soul of the world and ever so briefly, I see myself walking on the varied earths of the multiverse.

That’s when the Mayor begins to scream.

A horrendous, ripping scream across the fabric of time and space. The universe seems to contract and the point that contained her, every bit of her across every earth, vanishes.

My vision returns and where the Mayor stood is nothing but Parker’s crystal, unharmed, on the ground.

*

I somehow end up on the roof of city hall. It’s as good a place as any and at least tonight I have the benefit of a gorgeous clear sky. I inhale the cool night air. I could be anywhere in the world right now if I close my eyes.

There are twelve stones total. I pick up the closest. Electricity surges behind the surface. I feel it drawn to me as I move my fingers around the smooth surface.

“Come on,” I whisper. The tendrils extend hesitantly through the rock, curing around my finger. Slowly I draw out the sizzling blue light. It flows across and into my skin with a tingle. The stone tumbles from my hands, it’s wavy abstract shape transformed into a plain, unassuming rock.

By the third one the sensation of power is hard to ignore. My entire body crackles with it. The stored energy no longer requires prying but jumps from the stone into my skin at first touch. The useless rocks tumble to my feet as I overlook the city on the port.

I could keep this power, keep everything the same. The Mayor isn’t wrong – most people hate change. Or they think they do. We need change though. It’s human nature. A part that has been denied too long.

I extend my arms as if embracing the horizon. I smile.

_Hug the monster._

It’s like emerging from impossibly deep underwater. I take in a breath of oxygen, the sweetest air I’ve ever breathed. The world is alive with color, vibration, aromas of all kinds. Everything, not just the people emanate an aura, something full and so real I could reach out and touch them all from where I stand.

I gravitate towards the blemish, the rotten piece that threatens to cannibalize the entire beautiful world. The Mayor sees me coming and begins to scream. It shouldn’t hurt. I just need to take away the pieces she stole. I embrace her tightly, absorbing the remaining potential. Her body, no longer substantive, gives way. The last of the stolen energy flows through my veins. Every nerve ending sings with stimulation and I feel my legs give way.

“Gotcha,” says Gordy. He lowers me gently into a seated position. Marcus, Parker, and Kathryn stand behind him, blinking in surprise.

Parker rushes forward, taking Gordy’s place.

“Are you ok?” Parker holds me unsteadily, hazel tiger-striped eyes wet, her face pale. I can’t believe it took me this long to see it. She’s beautiful. Amazing. In an instant, the piece of me that has yet to let go floats to the surface, dares me to pull away. I lean forward and meet her soft lips. Parker’s lashes flutter against my cheek briefly before closing.

“I thought I lost you,” whispers Parker. “I know I have no right…”

“I love you Dana.” I have to say it. I need her to know. “I thought…I thought I couldn’t find love. Not without it being ripped away. But that’s not true anymore.”

For the first time, I want a life. This life right here, on earth unknown with it’s weird mystical energies. I want it in spite of the fact that there will be bad days, that it won’t always be easy, and that things in both the past and the future may hurt.

“Hey, so not to ruin the mood or anything, but how exactly did we get here?” asks Marcus.

“That would be me,” says Gordy, tentatively raising his hand. Marcus’s eyes go wide.

“You can –?” He zips his fingers back and forth questioningly.

“Not exactly,” says Gordy uncomfortably.

“Gordy’s always had a knack for being at the right place at the right time,” I say.

“Pretty sweet ability,” Marcus says. Kathryn beams at Marcus as if he had granted Gordy his new skill. A sharp elbow digs into my side.

“I believe you were in the middle of saying something? Something about…love?” A smirk plays on Parker’s lips. She’ll pay for that later when I get her alone.

“I love you Dana Parker.”

“After that,” she says softly.

“I’m ready to live and want to be with you,” I say. “All of you.” I look at Parker. Marcus. Gordy. Kathryn. I think about all the others not here.

“You’re my family,” I say. Tears cloud my vision, obscuring the skyline of Port City so I can only see the faces around me.

“My home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT?!?! Who knew when I started this random fan fiction way back in June that I would cross two TV shows and create an original universe for this character! Huge thank you to anyone out there reading this – it’s the first original work I’ve ever shared publicly and that made me very nervous. Super huge thanks to anyone that followed/read the entire Rathe saga. I never expected it to continue so far and was going with it day by day. This was all written on-the-go so nothing has been beta’ed and all mistakes, inconsistencies, etc are mine. Hopefully I’ll go back through this someday and tighten up the story; but for now, I’m stoked and this is THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> In one or two lives  
> I opened the door with the prize  
> only to find the prize was not worth the life.
> 
> I wanted the door.


End file.
